


State of Grace

by ErinPtah



Series: The Expectingverse [3]
Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Babies, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyfidelity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 108,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An excursus to Expecting (and, thus, part of the <a href="http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/107961.html">Expectingverse</a>), taking place between its final chapter and epilogue. Described in comparison as "the emotional equivalent of jumping into a cold pool after soaking in the jacuzzi." Stephen has a new baby, a new marriage, and the love of a good man — so, naturally, this is when he starts to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You'll Never Be Alone Again

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this story began in mid-2009; this is the much-improved revised version, from late 2010. Includes still-canon-compliant illustrations from the old one, and updated illustrations from the new one. Title comes from [the Billy Joel song](http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/1528/).
> 
> Endless thanks to stellar_dust for being an invaluable beta.
> 
> Full list of warnings: Sex, not always good; triggers, trauma, flashbacks; dissociation, memory issues; background childhood abuse (physical, emotional) and neglect; background young-adult sexual abuse, drug use, compromised-consent sex work; background stalking; mental illness, panic attacks, suicidal ideation; mild language, some physical violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlene's middle name is Ophelia, after the literary woman pursued obsessively (but under false pretenses) by a very troubled man. It also gives her punny initials.
> 
> Clips referenced: ["Charlene (I'm Right Behind You)"](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/59061/february-09-2006/charlene--i-m-right-behind-you-); [googley-eyed clams](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/148615/january-29-2008/googley-eyed-clams).

**July 21, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
Jon, of course, was best man.  
  
One of Charlene's friends flew in on a red-eye from Italy to be maid of honor; she spoke enough English to make friendly conversation, but not enough to follow any of Jon's stupid puns.  
  
Nate got to be ringbearer, after he solemnly promised his father that he would walk straight down the aisle and hold the pillow very carefully and not be scared and not trip (and after his father solemnly promised Stephen to take immediate action if he started using the phrase "my precious").  
  
Charlene's dress was a custom job, sent as a gift by some French designer. Jon knew nothing about fashion, but when Tracey heard the name she had to sit down very quickly.  
  
The bride wore an old family pair of earrings, the stunning new dress, a pair of shoes borrowed from Tracey, and, in keeping with the color scheme of rest of the wedding, a red, white, and blue corsage.  
  
No one in Stephen's immediate family attended except for the two-week-old George William Colbert, who, looking ridiculously adorable in the smallest three-piece suit Jon had ever seen, spent most of the ceremony sleeping in a bassinet at Tracey's side.  
  
In total, only about two dozen people were physically present. On the other hand, the whole thing was broadcast via webcam. As far as Stephen was concerned, the eyes of the entire Nation were upon him.  
  
The best bits were uploaded to YouTube within a few hours, just in case.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The reception was much, much bigger. On top of the cast and staff of two television shows, every friend of the _Report_ was invited. Despite the short notice, most of them even managed to show up.  
  
Stephen wanted the first dance to be to "Charlene (I'm Right Behind You)", but at this Charlene put her foot down, and Jon backed her up. In the end they looked through Manilow's discography, and settled on "Keep Each Other Warm."  
  
There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd as they circled the floor. Which was fortunate, as it meant nobody noticed the way Stephen couldn't help but smirk in Jon's general direction every time the line "and we'll stand tall" came around.  
  
When the tempo shifted, the happy couple split up and took turns with the other guests. Charlene turned out to be as excellent a dancer as Stephen; she indulged Stone Phillips, Julian Bond, Robert Wexler, Jason Jones, Aasif Mandvi, and Joe Scarborough before taking a break, at which point she ended up conversing in animated Spanish with one of the women who had accompanied Esteban Colberto.  
  
Jon, well aware that dancing wasn't his strong suit, kept to the side for the most part. Tracey finally dragged him onto the floor during one of the slow songs, pointing out that all he had to do was rock back and forth to the rhythm and not step on her feet. That, at least, he managed.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon was on his way out of the men's room when he passed Stephen on the way in.  
  
The groom clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner, glanced around to make sure they were the only ones there, then spun Jon against the wall and kissed him thoroughly.  
  
He wanted to say: "Stephen, no. Not here. Not yet. It's too public; it's too crowded; someone could walk in at any minute."  
  
He said: "Mmph—ngh—oh-h-h—ah."  
  
Stephen pulled away, smirked triumphantly, and tucked a dislodged lock of Jon's hair back into place before disappearing without a word into one of the stalls.  
  
When Jon got back to the reception hall, trying to act casual, Tracey caught him immediately and began to straighten his collar. "Bit early for that, don't you think?" she murmured, low enough that only they could hear.  
  
"Your lipstick's smeared," replied Jon.  
  
She jumped. "Where?"  
  
Jon grinned. "Not really. But now I know it could have been."  
  
"Why you—!" Tracey whacked him lightly on the shoulder with her purse, then laughed. "All right, you caught me. But you, dear, need to learn to make use of mirrors."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When they were gathered around the table with the cake in the center, someone called for a toast, and the call was echoed up and down the seats.  
  
"Why is everyone looking at me?" murmured Jon after a minute.  
  
"Tradition says the best man gets the first toast," his wife reminded him. "Go on, honey, take a shot at it."  
  
When the guests began to chant his name, Jon knew there was no getting out of it. He stood, to general cheering; Stephen, the expert in mob control, waved the crowd gently into silence.  
  
"I, ah, don't have anything prepared," Jon began. "So if you're expecting me to be funny, you're out of luck. I don't have any jokes about weddings, anyway. In fact, I'm pretty much blanking on all my jokes except one. All you need to know is that it involves a piñata, and isn't appropriate for mixed company."  
  
That got a round of chuckles. Some of them had obviously heard the joke.  
  
"So all I've got is my, uh, I guess my hopes and dreams and feelings for this couple, and I'll try to express them as honestly as I can."  
  
A respectful silence settled.  
  
"We're here to celebrate the wedding of Stephen Tyrone Colbert and Charlene Ophelia Colbert. They have a long and complicated history, and how they ever got to this point is an incredibly, incredibly circuitous tale, so I'm not going to go into detail now.  
  
"Suffice to say that they've both been through rough times. Charlene's got a million stories; she could fill a book with nothing but times when she ended up stranded in some remote countryside. And Stephen, well, Stephen's been pregnant. It doesn't get much rougher than that—am I right, ladies?"  
  
There was a murmur of approval from the mothers in the audience, and a few fathers who were sharp enough to know they would win points for agreeing.  
  
"But they've made it through everything to end up here today, and I couldn't be happier." He turned to the couple, who were leaning close together but both facing him, and let his gaze settle on Stephen's eyes. "They've each found someone who loves them, and accepts them, and will take care of them. Someone who will help them through whatever they face in the future. Someone who will make sure they'll never be alone again.  
  
"All I want for these two people is for them to be happy. And I believe they will be."  
  
He raised his glass. " _L'Chaim._ "  
  


  
The guests raised their own glasses and, in variants of Hebrew ranging from pitch-perfect to hopelessly mangled, echoed the toast.  
  
"That was beautiful, Jon," said Charlene.  
  
"Yes, beautiful," agreed Stephen. "Now who wants cake?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Eleanor Holmes Norton caught the bouquet.  
  
After Charlene had thrown it, Stephen tossed his corsage in the same manner. There was a general leap from all the single men, resulting in a tangled pile of limbs that could have been either a football tackle or a fully clothed orgy. Bobby and Tad, whose wedding was scheduled for December, watched with detached amusement from the sidelines.  
  
When the dust cleared, Keith Olbermann held the prize triumphantly aloft.  
  
"Did I invite him?" asked Stephen in an undertone.  
  
Beside him, Jon shrugged. "I think he's Anderson Cooper's 'plus one'."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
They had decided against a full-fledged honeymoon. Charlene had been to all the classic places anyway, and Stephen had a show to host on Monday.  
  
Instead, they opted to spend their first two nights as a married couple in a ridiculously expensive hotel suite. George stared around at the lavish décor with what his father declared to be a clear appreciation of platinum-level tastes, until he started whimpering. Stephen grabbed a spare diaper and hauled him off to the bathroom without comment.  
  
The baby was still fussy after being changed and wiped down, so Stephen carried him from room to room, rocking him gently and pointing out the various expensive materials used in the furniture.  
  
He was finally starting to doze when Stephen strolled through one of the doors (mahogany-paneled, with designs in gold leaf) and found Charlene curled up by a window, still as a statue, looking out across the city skyline.  
  
"Out there are the businesses," explained Stephen in a whisper. "That's where people like Jon's big brother make all the money. You've got two big brothers of your own, you know. Maybe you'll get to meet them soon." He stroked George's feathery hairline, then looked up at his cousin. "It's a great view, isn't it?"  
  
"I must be crazy," murmured Charlene.  
  
Stephen frowned. "Because you don't like the view?"  
  
"I'm _married_ ," continued Charlene, only half-sounding like she was listening. "I could have just moved in. You could have let the rumors work on their own. There are six different clips on YouTube of you giving me a horrible awkward kiss. What am I doing?"  
  
Stephen thought it had been a fine kiss, and almost said so—but something in him recognized that this might not be the time.  
  
Instead, he sat down on one of the (leather and brass) armchairs near the window and said, "Remember that time Uncle Mark undercooked the turkey at the Fourth of July cookout?"  
  
A beat later, Charlene replied, "What, the one when everyone got food poisoning except Laura, because she had decided at college that she was going to be a vegetarian?"  
  
"And us," corrected Stephen, adjusting George to settle more comfortably in the crook of his arm.  
  
"And us, right." She paused. "Wait, why us?"  
  
"You twisted your ankle, remember? Out by the stream."  
  
At last Charlene turned to look at him. She had changed out of the wedding dress hours ago in favor of a set of lavender pajamas; her hands were folded over the slightly worn knees. "And I told you to go get my parents, but you wouldn't leave?"  
  
"I sent Shasta to find them!" protested Stephen. "I wasn't about to leave you _alone_. There might have been bears out there!"  
  
Charlene smirked, not unfondly. "I remember your dog, all right. She couldn't have found a stick in the forest." She twisted a dark curl between her fingers. "So you're saying I owe you for saving me from bears?"  
  


  
"And food poisoning! And you never paid me back for either."  
  
"I did so! Remember when I brought all those shells back from the beach, and taught you how to make googley-eyed clams?"  
  
"Whooziwhatnow?"  
  
"Googley-eyed clams," repeated Charlene, gesturing in the air. "You take a clam shell, and you glue two little googly eyes on it, and maybe draw a smile, or...what are you looking so blank for? You made dozens of them! Hung around the elementary school playground, tried to sell them to the little kids."  
  
"I—I did not," insisted Stephen, somewhat uneasily. She sounded awfully certain, but he didn't remember it at all. And anyway, it sure didn't sound like him. Googley-eyed clams? Honestly.  
  
"Well, I'm sure I can think of something else," declared Charlene, relaxing back against the windowframe with a nostalgic smile. "Oh, I know! Remember the Christmas pageant in seventh grade...?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The moon was low in the sky long before they ran out of memories, but George woke up hungry and Charlene drifted off while Stephen was feeding him.  
  
George passed out again soon after his bottle. Stephen tiptoed out of the living room and laid the baby down in his crib (not a standard in these suites, but the hotel didn't make money by being unable to adapt to unusual situations). It was right beside the master bedroom, close enough to hear if anything went wrong; whispering a quick prayer, just in case, he let his fingertips linger on the tiny cheek for a moment before propping the door open and stepping through.  
  
They couldn't exactly ask for two beds in a honeymoon suite, so Stephen had promised to sleep on one of the (velvet) couches, and had even been planning to go through with it. But now that Charlene herself had crashed in one of the other rooms, he felt no guilt in shrugging off the remnants of his tuxedo and sprawling, clad only in undershirt and boxers, across the (red satin) sheets.  
  
Closing his eyes, the better to revel in the liquid fabric against his skin, he thought about Jon.  
  
It wasn't the first time that night that Jon had come to mind, but until then Stephen had pushed the images away. No point in dwelling on the fantasy when there was no way to sneak the reality in, or get Stephen out to him, with inexcusable risk. Besides, he had other things to deal with.  
  
But now the baby was asleep, and he was alone, and these sheets felt sinfully good.  
  
He thought of Jon's toast at the wedding. Sweet and self-deprecating and incredibly Jewy and ultimately impossible to be unaffected by, and it had taken all of Stephen's willpower not to pounce on him right then.  
  
He thought of Jon's smile. Jon's laugh. Jon's eyes on his.  
  
He thought of the last time they had kissed, Jon in shirtsleeves and himself in hospital green and the whole thing smelling of old sweat and antiseptics, when he had been exhausted, full of stitches, and still a little loopy on painkillers....  
  
Well, it had felt romantic at the time, but surely he could come up with a better fantasy now.  
  
One of Stephen's hands slid languidly down his stomach as he imagined Jon next to him on the bed, furry chest bared, eyes smouldering.  
  
His own eyes fluttered half-open as imaginary-Jon bent over him—  
  
—for a second he saw himself, as if suspended in the air to watch his own body writhe on the mattress—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—and then all at once he wasn't there any more.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The sensations came all at once, tumbling over each other but not crowding each other out, not a single one dulled by the sheer volume of company it had.  
  
A cold linoleum floor under his knees. Rug burns on his back as he was thrust against the carpeted floor, once, twice, again, again, again. Slippery, sudsy tiles against his cheek as warm water poured over his back. Hands, so many hands, grasping, shoving, stroking, pushing, smacking; and fingers, rough, slick, on him, in him; and then—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Where was he?  
  
He was wrapped up in a cocoon of some sort. Thin fabric. And he was lying on something soft but firm.  
  
Sheets. He was tangled in a ball of sheets.  
  
Was it his apartment? A hotel on the road? His house?  
  
No; even his house didn't have sheets this nice. Anyway, the rest of the bed was empty. Unless of course Lorraine had left again.  
  
But that wasn't right either. Those days were long gone too.  
  
Stephen opened his eyes. It took him a few moments to recognize the room, strangely illuminated as it was by strips of moonlight, but when he did it all fell into place. The wedding. The reception. The hotel. George in the crib. Charlene on the couch.  
  
Jon in his thoughts.  
  
_And then—and then—but none of that was real—at least, it isn't real now—_  
  
Still clutching the sheets around him like armor, he dared to look up. His reflection, pale in the dim light, peered back at him from the mirror on the ceiling.  
  
Half-expecting the face in the mirror to wink at him, if not start spinning its head at unnatural angles, Stephen grabbed his satin cloak and fairly threw himself out of the bed. Quaking from head to foot, he made his unsteady way to the next room.  
  
George was still sleeping peacefully. Stephen reached down to brush a trail of drool away from the corner of the baby's mouth with his thumb; the hand stopped trembling as it touched his son's cheek. For another minute he stood there, willing the rest of his body to steady itself, as he watched the little chest rise and fall.  
  
Then, feeling as drained as if he had just run a marathon, he collapsed onto the unused couch beside it and, until a cranky wail woke him a few hours later, slept without dreaming.


	2. Look Who's Coming To Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [the animal toss](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-july-24-2007/so-close); a ton of TCR guests; [Pervez Musharraf](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-september-26-2006/pervez-musharraf-pt--1); Jon's 2006 Oscar intro.

**July 24, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
After all that had happened in Stephen's life in the past nine months, or even the past week alone, his Monday had been surprisingly normal. He cobbled together nearly a night's worth of sleep between feedings, changings, and general rockings; picked up an extra nap on the ride in to the studio; found a few things to get ravingly furious about; shouted for half an hour on the air, to the delight of his audience; and arrived home to find George looking no worse for wear despite the time spent away from his daddy.  
  
Jon hadn't visited for lunch, and Neil DeGrasse Tyson had talked so long that they'd missed the toss. Stephen would have to do something about that man. The way he went on about science got Jon far too excited, even if it hadn't also induced Jon to skip his daily quality time with Stephen.  
  
But at 11:28 on Tuesday, all of Stephen's worries melted away the instant he saw Jon's face on the screen.  
  
They were wearing almost identical ties. Dark blue. Tiny white dots.  
  
"Welcome back! Before we go, we check in with our good friend Stephen Colbert at _The Colbert Report_. Stephen! What've you got for us?"  
  
_You're coming to my house tonight._  
  
"Thanks, Jon," said Stephen, trying to keep his face appropriately straight, in every sense of the word. "Tonight: Iraq, and a report from a province where life is far from 'purr'-fect."  
  
_You're coming over, with the explicit intention of having sex._  
  
"Plus: immigration. We'll bring you the story of one illegal alien and his 'moo'-ving struggle to feed his family."  
  
_Because it turns out you want that._  
  
"Finally, an in-depth investigation. Rogue arms dealers..." _You want me._ "...selling plutonium on the black market—" _You love me._  
  
Right there he lost it, falling forward, laughing into his fist, shoulders shaking, to all appearances consumed with hilarity over a story about illegally traded nuclear material.  
  


  
The audience cheered. Audiences do that. Train them well enough, and they'll cheer at anything.  
  
"All right, that's it!" cried Jon, nearly cracking up himself, while Stephen laughed so hard that tears sprang to his eyes. "Come back to me!" he exclaimed, and a moment later the camera obliged. "That's it! It's over! That's our show—join us tomorrow night at eleven—here it is, your moment of Zen!"  
  
Stephen could hear him giggling up until the connection cut out. It was, he thought, probably the most beautiful sound in the world.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**July 25, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
It was well after midnight when Stephen's driver dropped him off at his front door, but the house was alight with activity.  
  
He opened the door and was bowled over by the scent of some dish that was probably French but still smelled delicious. "Stephen! You're just in time," called Charlene's voice from the kitchen. "Come help Tracey set the table."  
  
It turned out that Stephen's timing was even better than he had expected. By the time he arrived in the dining room, four full places were set. It was almost as if he had walked extremely slowly until he stopped hearing the clatter of dishes. Funny how that worked.  
  
"The kids are all in bed," Tracey informed him. "Nate tried to sneak downstairs three times, but he's finally conked out. And Maggie started fussing a few minutes ago, so Jon's up with her. He should be back down soon."  
  
Sure enough, no sooner had she finished speaking than Jon came through the door.  
  
"Stephen!" he exclaimed. "It's about time. Charlene said she wouldn't add the onions until you showed up, and apparently it's no good without the onions."  
  
"Um," said Stephen. "Right."  
  
Jon was in the outfit that had gone far past trademark and vaulted into cliché: grey T-shirt, khakis. But his shoes were off, and for the life of him Stephen couldn't remember if he had ever seen Jon in sock feet before.  
  
Jon fidgeted under his gaze. "Sorry, should I have dressed up more?"  
  
"No," breathed Stephen, trying to get a handle on himself. "No, it's fine."  
  
And then Charlene swept in from the kitchen with a steaming pot of something that smelled like angel wings fricasseed, and everyone sat down in a hurry.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"This," declared Stephen, after they had all eaten for some time in appreciative silence, "is quite possibly the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. And I've tasted AmeriCone Dream. What _is_ it?"  
  
" _Coq au vin_ ," replied Charlene. "Something told me Stephen would like _coq_."  
  
Jon laughed so hard he nearly choked on the _coq_ in his own mouth. The indignant expression on Stephen's face only made him crack up more; Tracey was snickering, and Charlene was clearly trying to suppress a smirk.  
  
"This is _not_ fair," protested Stephen, voice and face all wounded pride. "There's no way to get back at you. Unless you know any recipes for cat."  
  
That sobered Jon up quickly. (Sort of. The _vin_ part of the dish was having an effect.) "Good point," he said. "We're definitely not cooking any cats. But he's right; this is amazing. Where did you learn to cook like this?"  
  
"I studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris," replied Charlene mildly, "under Didier Chantefort, member of the Culinary Academy of France and Chef de Cuisine."  
  
Just as nonchalantly, Stephen remarked, "Did I ever tell you that I sang a duet with Barry Manilow? He's an Emmy winner, you know."  
  
"Yves Saint-Laurent arranged for a custom wedding dress to be sent to me, as a personal gift."  
  
"Supermodel Paulina Porizkova said I was, and I quote, 'so hot'."  
  
"Gérard Louis-Dreyfus, Forbes-listed billionaire, offered to write me into his will."  
  
"House Speaker Nancy Pelosi is so afraid of me that she tells all the members of her party not to talk to me."  
  
"I have a cameo in a film with Gérard Depardieu."  
  
"I have a minor league hockey mascot named after me. And a baby eagle."  
  
"I had a one-night stand with Ségolène Royal."  
  
"I had a one-night stand with Bill O'Reilly."  
  
"I," offered Jon, "interviewed the sitting president of Pakistan. And offered him Twinkies. They had to put in bulletproof glass and bring in bomb-sniffing dogs before they'd let him in the building. Oh, and I once shared a bed with Halle Berry. And George Clooney."  
  
They all looked at Tracey.  
  
"Um," she said. "I once cooked dinner for Oprah? Oh, and, one of _Time_ magazine's 100 Most Influential People in the World is my husband."  
  
Jon blushed.  
  
"You know, you can say that too," Stephen informed Charlene.  
  
"If there's one thing I've learned in twenty years abroad," she replied, "it's that international recognition is not as important as making really good baklava."  
  
Stephen turned apologetically to Tracey and Jon. "She's just jealous."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The baklava was so good that Stephen almost changed his mind.  
  
He was fully engrossed in gathering the last flakes of honeyed pastry off of his plate when Tracey said, "Okay, what now?"  
  
"Who wants dish duty tonight?" replied Jon.  
  
"Oh, they can do it, Jon," said Stephen quickly. "Ladies like washing dishes. It's genetic, I think."  
  
Tracey gave Jon a look that Stephen couldn't read—but was obviously full of meaning to Jon, and Stephen felt a sudden stab of jealousy as the two of them had a rapid wordless conversation. Then Jon turned to him. "Stephen, have you ever _asked_ a woman if she likes doing the dishes?"  
  
"I don't need to ask. I already know."  
  
"Try asking."  
  
Feeling silly, but knowing that for whatever reason it would make Jon happy, Stephen turned to the wives. " _Do_ you like washing dishes?"  
  
"Can't stand it," said Tracey promptly.  
  
"Detest it," agreed Charlene.  
  
"You see, J—wait, what?"  
  
"It's the most boring part of cooking," said Charlene.  
  
"A necessary evil," added Tracey.  
  
"Oh, right. Next I suppose you're going to say you don't like laundry, either."  
  
"Not particularly," said Tracey.  
  
"What about vacuuming?"  
  
"Even worse," said Charlene.  
  
"Dusting? Mopping? Ironing? Sweeping?"  
  
Both women shook their heads.  
  
"You're kidding! My mother _loves_ to do those things!"  
  
"Did she ever _say_ she loved them?" asked Jon.  
  
"Well, no. But why else would she have _done_ them all the time?"  
  
"Maybe because," suggested Tracey, "in a household with eleven kids, _somebody_ needed to clean up their messes?"  
  
Inwardly, Stephen cringed. _No—it isn't true—I didn't make her do things she hated—I was good—_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He was standing next to the counter with a handful of silverware, and somebody was whimpering.  
  
"Sounds like you're in luck," said Jon with a wry smile, coming up beside him with a stack of plates.  
  
Not somebody. Something. The whimper was coming from the baby monitor. (Tracey and Charlene were nowhere to be seen; they must have left to do...lady stuff.)  
  
"Well, what do you know?" said Stephen, dropping the forks into the sink with a relatively quiet crash. "George needs me. Guess you'll have to take care of these yourself. B-R-B!"  
  
With that, he sprinted for the stairs.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Two of the plates were nicked, but when Jon pulled apart the stack he found that none of them were broken. He suspected Stephen would want to toss out the nicked ones, so he soaped them up first and set them in the drying rack with the chipped parts facing downard.  
  
Within a few minutes he could hear a low murmur on the other end of the baby monitor. After listening to make sure there was no one else on the floor to overhear, he turned up the volume.  
  
" _You did that on purpose, didn't you,_ " grumbled Stephen, sounding—not angry, exactly, but more annoyed than Jon had ever heard him with George. " _You didn't need to, you know. I was handling it._ "  
  
Oblivious, the baby kept right on fussing. Stephen sighed, and then, abruptly, began to sing:  
  
" _Hush, little baby, don't say a word  
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird  
And if that mockingbird don't sing  
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring  
And if that ring he can't afford  
Papa's gonna buy an On Notice board  
And if that board should get filled up  
Papa's gonna buy you a labrador pup  
And if that pup don't want to play  
Papa's gonna buy you Axe Body Spray  
'Cause Papa's sponsors say it's neat  
(Though Papa thinks it smells like feet)  
And if that spray won't get you girls  
That's okay, because you're too young to start dating anyway. Give it time. They'll be falling all over you before you know it._ "  
  
Jon had considered himself a nice guy to start with, but he could have sworn he felt his heart grow three sizes that night.  
  
He worked slowly, trying not to drown out the song, until at last the room on the other end of the monitor went quiet. A few minutes later, he heard Stephen's footsteps pause outside the kitchen. "Come on in!" he said, keeping his voice low but loud enough that it could be heard in the hall. "No need to wait out there."  
  
"I _was_ coming in," protested Stephen as he obeyed. "I certainly wasn't waiting until you finished up before letting you know I was there."  
  
"Yes, you were," said Jon, "but it's okay. Help me rinse these."  
  
Cowed, Stephen took a place at Jon's side, and picked up one of the soapy cups in the left basin of the sink as gingerly as if it were a live grenade.  
  
Jon tried not to laugh, but it was a challenge. "You gonna be able to do this?"  
  
"Don't patronize me, Stewart," snapped Stephen, and turned on the water.  
  
By the time the last of the dishes had been through a scrubbing in the right basin, Stephen was so intent on his task that he didn't even realize Jon had finished. Flicking bubbles from his hands, Jon took the opportunity to look him up and down. The other man was thoroughly absorbed; once he had set his mind to something, he never did it by halves. It was by turns incredibly frustrating and incredibly endearing.  
  
Not until the last fork was set in the drying rack did Stephen turn to Jon, and only then did Jon inform him, "There's spit-up on your back."  
  
"Really?" exclaimed Stephen, craning his neck in a futile attempt to see the offending stain. "But I had a towel on my shoulder! And this is a nice shirt, too!"  
  
"The first lesson you learn from babies," remarked Jon, "is that they will always find a way to make a mess."  
  
"Really? I thought it was 'Yes, a creature that small _can_ poop that much.'"  
  
Giggling, Jon plucked the washcloth from the sink. "That too. Hold still; I'll get it."  
  
"It's that far down?" asked Stephen, as Jon dabbed at the splotch of formula that had made its way to just above his hips. "At least he's got range."  
  
"That's true."  
  
They fell silent. Jon dropped the washcloth back into the water, retrieved a clean towel, and began to gently rub the damp spot. That was when he noticed how much Stephen had taken the "hold still" direction to heart. The man's eyes were closed, his breaths deep and deliberate.  
  
Jon put the towel aside and rested his fingertips on the small of Stephen's back, moving them slowly, feeling warm skin through the wildly expensive cloth.  
  
Stephen's breath caught in his throat.  
  
_So far, so good._  
  
Taking a step closer, Jon kissed Stephen's neck, and was rewarded with a delicious little moan.  
  


  
He could feel his own breath coming more rapidly now. _This is good. So, what now? More of this? Move forward? Is this too fast? Too slow?  
  
God, it's like I'm sixteen again. I have no idea how this works. Even with Stephen—and I know Stephen better than almost anyone!—I have no idea where his boundaries are...._  
  
An instant later, when he had an arm around his waist, a hand on the back of his neck, and various other body parts pressing against every inch of him from the toes grasping at the fabric of his socks to the tongue teasing his lips apart, he amended that thought: _Okay, now I have some idea._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When he felt the first touch of Jon's hand on his back, even with the damp washcloth in between, Stephen knew where it was going. Maybe Jon didn't realize it yet, but Stephen had whole banks of antennae tuned to picking these things up.  
  
Slowly, meticulously, thoroughly, Stephen began to shut down.  
  
He shut down his misgivings, his doubts, and his fears. He set aside his values and his morals. He packed up his beliefs and put them in storage. He wrapped up his entire history with the man beside him and set it carefully out of the way. One by one he switched off his self-respect, his self-assurance, and his self-awareness.  
  
The last thing he did before turning off the metaphorical lights was to tack the equivalent of a note on his mental front door: _Don't you dare hurt him._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon had always thought he had a fairly robust libido, but it was his partner who half dragged, half carried him up the stairs, and all but threw him onto the bed before tumbling down after him.  
  
"Where do you get all this energy?" he gasped, as his T-shirt was dragged up over his head.  
  
"One of the perks of being young and virile," declared the other man, before pressing quizzical fingers into the soft roll of Jon's gut. "Unlike you, I see."  
  
"Hey!" giggled Jon, squirming ticklishly. "I'm not the one who just had a—"  
  
He broke off with a groan as Stephen's body arched against his. So much for rational argument. Or coherent thought, for that matter.


	3. Good Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Jon's ringtone](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-may-11-2006/headlines---cell-phone-scuffle); [Ingmar Bergman tribute](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/91011/august-02-2007/farewell-ingmar-bergman). Jon's mother was in the audience on the 26th, briefly shown in the opening; the clip doesn't seem to be on the website, but [she does get a shoutout](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-july-26-2007/the-audacity-of-dope).

**July 26, 2007**  
Thursday  
  
As Jon's new significant-other-aside-from-his-wife, Stephen figured he had the prerogative to enter the man's office unannounced. Not that he had ever felt the need to announce himself before, of course. But now he had a reason that Jon couldn't argue with.  
  
So around lunchtime he burst in without knocking...and nearly ran into the unfamiliar old woman on the chair in front of Jon's desk.  
  
"Careful there!" exclaimed Jon, standing up as Stephen skidded to a halt. "Stephen, uh, this is my mother. She just dropped in for a visit. Mom, this is Stephen Colbert."  
  
"My Jon's told me so much about you," added Jon's Mother.  
  
Jon had one of those quasi-panicked looks on his face, all pursed lips and hangdog eyes. He needn't have worried: it only took a few seconds for Stephen to revert to his natural Southern charm. "It's a pleasure to meet you, madam," he said with a warm smile.  
  
"You'll have to speak up, dear," said Jon's Mother. "I'm going a bit deaf."  
  
"Really?" exclaimed Stephen, raising his voice excitedly. "I'm half deaf! Can't hear a thing out of this ear. And Jon always tells me I shouldn't shout so much. See, Jon? Your mother agrees with me!" He put his hands on his hips and glared his most impressive glare.  
  
"Oh, you don't have to do that," protested Jon's Mother. "He's a good boy, my Jon is. Even when he doesn't call for weeks at a time. I understand. He's very busy."  
  
Stephen dropped to his knees and looked soulfully up at her. "I feel your pain. It's hard, isn't it, when they don't appreciate you? And after all the work you did in carrying him for nine months—I understand. I've been there."  
  
A gentle smile broke across the lined face. "Well, aren't you sweet!"  
  
"Glad to see you two are getting along," remarked Jon dryly from behind his desk, then jumped as one of the piles on the desk began to chirp out Weather Girls chords. "Uh, hang on, let me take this."  
  
He dug out the cell phone and made thoughtful noises into it for a few seconds, then covered the end with his hand. "Is it safe to leave you two alone together?"  
  
"Jon!" exclaimed Stephen, all shock and wounded pride. "I will take _excellent_ care of your mother." Then, without bothering to speak loudly enough that she would hear, he added " _Trust_ me."  
  
Jon nodded. "Be right there," he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. "They need my input down in writing," he explained. "I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
"Go ahead, dear," said Jon's Mother. "Your job is very important. Don't worry about me; I've been waiting to spend time with you ever since we planned this visit, so I can wait a little longer."  
  
"I'll be quick, Mom, I promise," said Jon. Stephen watched him go, then turned to Jon's Mother.  
  
"So," he said, "do you have embarrassing baby pictures with you?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Marian didn't have embarrassing pictures, but she did have a few stories that always made her boy blush, and she told these to the nice Colbert boy, who sat down on the couch and listened attentively. Once she pulled out Jon's kindergarten school picture, though, he didn't seem to have eyes for anything else.  
  
"Have you ever looked at his ears?" he asked when she had gotten through the tale with the mop and the pumpkin. "I mean, really _looked_ at his ears?"  
  
"Of course I know what my son's ears look like," replied Marian.  
  
"But—in this picture, they're exactly the same as his daughter's ears! Did you ever notice that?"  
  
"My, dear, you must have very good eyes to pick that up right away."  
  
Still absorbed in the photo, Colbert bit his lip, then said something too quietly for her to hear.  
  
"What was that?" she pressed.  
  
"My son," he repeated. "George William. He isn't ever going to look like this. I mean, nobody's ever going to pick up one of my baby pictures and say, 'Oh, look, he has his daddy's ears!' Not that I want anyone else to have my ears. But _still_. It's not _fair_."  
  
Marian shook her head. "Oh, sweetheart, ears have nothing to do with it. You care for him? You suffer for him? You love him, no matter what? Then he's yours. Whether he looks like you or not."  
  
Colbert frowned. Something about this was clearly making him think very hard.  
  
At last, tracing circles on the rug with the toes of his shoes like a nervous little boy, he faltered, "Would you love Jon, no matter what?"  
  
"Of course!"  
  
"What if...he did something really, really bad?"  
  
"Don't be silly, dear. My Jon wouldn't do that."  
  
"But if he _did_ ," insisted Colbert. "What then?"  
  
"Well, then I would stand by him and support him, of course. What else would a mother do?" The boy looked so conflicted by this that Marian started to worry. "Why do you ask? Is he in trouble?"  
  
"He hasn't done anything wrong!" cried Colbert immediately. "Jon hasn't done anything wrong. I was just curious."  
  
He looked back down at the photo, then up at Marian. "You wouldn't, by any chance," he said nonchalantly, "happen to have an extra copy of this, would you?"  
  
"I have plenty, dear. Would you like to keep this one?"  
  
"Yay!" exclaimed Colbert, then checked his enthusiasm. "I mean...yeah, sure, that would be nice, I guess."  
  
He tried to look nonchalant, but he was working very hard to suppress a smile as he tucked the photo in his jacket, right before Jon reappeared at the door.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 2, 2007**  
Thursday  
  
Of course they couldn't have a visit—at least, not a _proper_ visit—when Jon's Mother was in town, so it wasn't until the next weekend that they planned another one. The only thing that kept Stephen from skipping the closing of his last show altogether was that he really, really liked Ingmar Bergman.  
  
"Bergman's films were gut-wrenching treatises on suffering and longing," he told his audience from beside the fireplace. "I can relate, because I recently suffered through the pain of childbirth, or would have if I hadn't been drugged to the gills at the time, and every day I long for a night of uninterrupted sleep.  
  
"Still, there will be never another like him; and so," he continued, as the world faded to black and white, "we say goodbye."  
  
They had set this up carefully: shifting backgrounds, nature scenes, not a touch of chroma. Against this backdrop Stephen began to recite. His lines were, if he did say so himself, very clever. Very meaningful. Seemingly contradictory, and yet—if you listened between the lines—well, okay, they were still contradictory. But that was the point of prestigious filmmaking. That was _depth_.  
  
And then a monotone voice interrupted him: "You have never loved."  
  


  
"Meg?" he exclaimed, because it had sounded like the intern; but when he turned around there was nobody there.  
  
Ignoring it, as he ignored anything that didn't fit with his preferred vision of reality, he pressed forward with his lines until he reached "Time is a thief."  
  
"Yeah, ah, speaking of which," cut in his stage manager, "we really gotta wrap this up."  
  
"Thanks, Bobby," said Stephen, and—after reminding the Cannes Film Festival that he was now due a suitable award—bid his audience good night.  
  
The monotone voice did _not_ linger in his mind as he changed out of his show suit. He was _not_ stewing over it as he met Sam out front with the car. It did _not_ haunt him on the long two-block drive to Jon's studio.  
  
And it certainly wasn't a factor in the way, when he met Jon on the way out of his office, Stephen looked both ways to make sure the hall was empty and then pushed him back in, shut the door behind them, and pulled him into a hungry kiss.  
  
The erudite host of _The Daily Show_ said, with a level of eloquence that only a master wordsmith, accomplished interviewer, clever punster, and acclaimed crossword puzzle enthusiast could achieve: "Stephmmmph."  
  
Then his arms went around Stephen, and for a time they stood like that, locked together in the center of the room.  
  
One of Stephen's hands slid down the front of Jon's shirt, his mouth kissing a trail down Jon's neck, when Jon flinched, cupped his chin, and pulled him back upright. "Whoa, whoa, Stephen, slow down."  
  
"But—!" protested Stephen, even as he fought to snap out of it.  
  
"We're literally going home _right now_ ," pointed out Jon with a wry smile. "You can wait."  
  
"I'm not so sure about that, Jon," said Stephen solemnly.  
  
The man actually _giggled_ at that. The _gravitas_ of the situation was clearly lost on him. "I know I'm irresistible, but..."  
  
"Yes," said Stephen, "you _are_."  
  
Jon stopped, blinking. "I am?"  
  
"You just said so, didn't you?"  
  
"Well, yeah, but I was kidding."  
  
"You mean you didn't _know_?" asked Stephen, brows furrowing. "But...what about all the things you do?"  
  
"What 'things', Stephen?"  
  
Stephen drummed his fingers in concentration, the tips tapping against Jon's back. " _Every_ thing! The way you walk, and the way you talk, and the way you dance in your chair. The way you get all giggly, and then bite your lip to try to _stop_ giggling, and it doesn't work at all. The way you move and sway when you're supposed to be standing still. The way you look into people's eyes when you're really interested in them, and don't look away. And—and _that!_ " he added, as a flush started to rise in Jon's cheeks. "The way you light up at stupid little things! You don't seriously mean you've been doing all that for all these years, and you never hand any idea what effect it had on...on...on certain people?"  
  
Jon shook his head. "I didn't know. I really didn't," he insisted, smiling in that surprised sort of way he had when he belatedly realized that someone had been complimenting him. "You never acted like you were...affected...that way."  
  
Stephen sulked. "Of course not, Jon. I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction of seeing that your devious gay-agenda tactics were working."  
  
Jon started giggling at that, and Stephen's heart ached. _I have too loved,_ he thought. _I love you._  
  
At last Jon said, "Well, are they working now?"  
  
"Yes," breathed Stephen. "God, yes."  
  
The giggling faded into a smile, more solemn but still brimming with genuine happiness.  
  
And then he drew Stephen into a kiss, completely different from any of the ten (or was it eleven? or had that last been the eleventh? He'd finally lost count) that they had shared before.  
  
He started slow, pressing feather-light touches to the corners of Stephen's mouth; then the gentle contact grew more intent, and to his own horror Stephen let out a strangled moan. With that Jon's lips parted, the tip of his tongue teasing Stephen's open; and Stephen yielded, falling forward into it, his control slipping away as he allowed Jon's mouth to lead his, until he was sucking helplessly on Jon's lower lip, all of his need and all of his desperation pouring into that act; and he could no more have pulled away from it than he could have sprouted wings and flown.  
  


  
So he prayed that Jon would break it, and at last he was released, heart hammering against his ribs.  
  
"We can't," insisted Jon, holding Stephen at arm's length with, mercifully, enough self-control for both of them. "Not in the office. Someone will catch us, and we promised Tracey, and we need to get back to the kids."  
  
The thought of George was just what Stephen needed to get his strength back. "You're right," he said, taking a deep breath and willing himself under control. When his son was concerned, he had an iron will. Not that he didn't anyway. "You're right. What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"  
  
He broke away and strode towards the door, but Jon grabbed his arm. "Hang on," he said, and Stephen felt his resolve quiver; but Jon's hands only went to his tie. "You can't walk out of here with this crooked. People will talk."  
  
"That's true," admitted Stephen, and clenched his fists at his sides while he allowed himself to be arranged.  
  
"How about me? How do I look?" asked Jon when he had finished.  
  
"You look like a slob," replied Stephen truthfully. "Nobody will suspect a thing."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon led Stephen out the studio's secret back door. Any other night, and Stephen would have been trying, for the umpteenth time, to figure out _why_ Jon had a secret studio back door; he claimed it was for the purpose of avoiding overeager fans, and Stephen didn't understand why such an otherwise smart man couldn't think of a more plausible lie.  
  
Right now he was so busy playing mental Formidable Opponent that he barely noticed the path they were taking.  
  
_How could you lose it like that?_  
  
You said it yourself. He's irresistible. Pudge and all.  
  
Don't give me that! We have rules. You could follow them if you made the effort.  
  
Oh, I wasn't the only one who wanted to break them. You were pressed flat up against him—don't pretend you didn't notice. If you'd let me, I could have had him right there on the floor....  
  
"Shotgun?"  
  
Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. "What?"  
  
"I'd let you drive," said Jon, keys jingling in his hand, "but you look kind of, uh, distracted. Not that I'm not, but if one of us is going to crash the car, it's probably better if it's me."  
  
"Well, of course you're driving," snapped Stephen, drawing himself up and trying to focus. "I never drive _myself_ anywhere."  
  
Hiding a smile behind his fist, Jon pulled open the passenger door and waved him in with a mock bow.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The rest of the family had gone to bed long before Jon pulled into Stephen's driveway; midnight dinners were not going to be a regular thing. Maggie was sleeping soundly, but Nate woke up when his door was opened and insisted on hearing a story.  
  
Jon was bidding good night to the clocks and the socks when he noticed Stephen in the doorway. "You want to join us?"  
  
Stephen, now wrapped in a flag-patterned robe, shook his head. "You can read in this house, Jon, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'll wait."  
  
He didn't sound unhappy, though. A little wistful, maybe, but surprisingly mellow.  
  
Jon nodded and went back to the book. "Goodnight kittens. Goodnight mittens...."  
  
Before he reached the last page, Nate's eyes had slid closed. Jon finished the rest of the story anyway, then set the book on its shelf, tucked the covers up around the boy's shoulders, and switched off the light.  
  
"He's such a good kid," he said fondly, pausing at the door to look back. He thought he saw Stephen nod.  
  
When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Jon saw George's baby monitor cupped in Stephen's hands. He settled down patiently on the bed ( _their_ bed, he realized with a start) while Stephen placed it on the bureau and began the laborious process of adjusting it to his satisfaction.  
  
"Right after Nate was born, Tracey and I both developed a ton of superstitious tics," remarked Jon, smiling fondly at the memory. "I had to check the temperature of everything we gave him at least three times, and she had this thing about not using wipes that were more than a week old."  
  
"Well, that's just silly, Jon," snorted Stephen. "Me, if I don't use wipes the day I buy them, I throw them out and get new ones."  
  
Though he was slightly horrified at the waste, Jon couldn't help but giggle. "I was about to say—we got _less_ neurotic by the time Maggie came around. How much more did you worry with your older kids?"  
  
Silence, except for the soft click as Stephen rested his glasses next to the monitor.  
  
Then he fairly bounced onto the bed, robe falling open. "Here's an idea," he said briskly, undoing Jon's fly one-handed. "Let's not talk about kids for a while."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon spent a few minutes just lying in a blissful daze before he recovered the ability to put two words together.  
  
Well-exercised though he had been, sleep didn't seem to be in a hurry to settle over him. Stephen had no such problem: he had dropped off within minutes, head tucked against Jon's side, one arm draped over his stomach. But that only made sense. He had done most of the work, after all.  
  


  
"Could've at least given me a chance to pay you back," murmured Jon dryly. For one thing, it was only fair. But more than that, given the way Stephen had melted in his arms with a single kiss, Jon couldn't wait to feel his reaction to a blowjob.  
  
Stephen stirred in his sleep and groaned faintly. It wasn't a happy groan.  
  
Wondering what he could be dreaming about, Jon stroked his hair, and waited until Stephen was at peace again before allowing his own eyes to close.


	4. Dog Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Jon's opening pitch](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-october-16-2006/first-pitch); [Stephen's shirt](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182082/july-18-2006/wwiii).

**August 3, 2007**  
Friday  
  
Stephen had dragged himself from his bed twice during the night to feed George, so when he began to wake up of his own volition he was in no rush. Besides, the bed was warm, the sheets were soft, and he could feel the comforting weight of Jon beside him. He couldn't think of any good reason to leave.  
  
As he let out a contented sigh, there was a stirring on the other half of the mattress, and then Jon...licked his cheek?  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
The friendly face of a bull terrier was looking down at him.  
  
Stephen yelped in surprise and started so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. A second bull terrier, curled up on the spot where Jon's legs had been, raised its head and regarded him curiously.  
  


  
"Um," he said. "Down! Off! Get! Go on, Shamksy! Shoo, Monkey!"  
  
He wasn't sure which dog was which, but it didn't seem to matter, as they both responded with equal nonchalance to every name, command, and hand gesture he could think of, up to and including his threat to put them On Notice.  
  
Grumbling about disrespect from lesser beings in general and dogs in particular, he climbed out of bed and headed downstairs. Once he was in the hall, both Monkey and Shamsky jumped to the floor and came trotting after him.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tracey was frying bacon in the kitchen when Stephen came in. "Where's Jon?"  
  
"He and Charlene went on an emergency kibble run. We realized we didn't have breakfast for..." She spared a glance over her shoulder. "I see you found the dogs."  
  
"They were on my _bed_ ," announced Stephen indignantly.  
  
"Does that bother you? We could try to train them not to, but they're pretty used to being allowed on the bed, and at this point I think they're pretty much set in their ways."  
  
"Why would you allow dogs on your bed in the first place? Unless...." He shuddered. "Okay, I don't want to know. Don't ask, don't tell."  
  
Oh, brother. Tracey had been warned about Stephen—multiple times—but still. "Uh, Stephen? I know the religious right claims people who support same-sex marriage want to be able to marry their dogs, but they're talking through their hats."  
  
"Oh, sure, go after my faith," huffed Stephen, bending to scratch Monkey behind the ears. "You're just jealous because you don't have a guiding moral compass that dictates everything you do."  
  
Tracey flipped the bacon onto a plate and laid a paper towel over it to soak up the grease before turning to face him. "Didn't Jon ever tell you? I'm Catholic."  
  
"Well, obviously—hey!" Looking for attention, Shamsky had headbutted him; Stephen doubled up on the scratching, then tried again. "Obviously not much of a Catholic, seeing as how you're cooking bacon on Friday."  
  
"Mmhmm." In spite of everything, Tracey didn't seem to be getting upset. You just couldn't take him seriously enough for that. Or maybe it was the dogs. She had a weakness for people who got along with dogs. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're in a gay adulterous relationship as part of a queer polyamorous ménage à quatre. How does a 'proper Catholic' pull that off?"  
  
She was expecting more over-the-top belligerence, or some absurdly convoluted theology, or...well, pretty much anything except what she got. Stephen pulled the dogs closer until they flanked him like bodyguards, rested his chin on Shamsky's head, and muttered, almost wisfully, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  
  
The dogs had about as much clue what was going on as Tracey did. Unlike her, though, they seemed to know how to respond: lean in close, thump their tails against the floor, and overwhelm Stephen with the healing fragrance of dog breath.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When Jon came through the door with two jumbo bags of kibble, he was expecting two enthusiastic doggy greetings and at least one friendly human one. He was a little miffed when nobody seemed to notice his arrival.  
  
"Smells like the bacon's ready," said Charlene brightly, and Jon followed her into the kitchen.  
  
There was bacon, all right, but there wouldn't be much longer. What was left of it was sitting on a plate in Stephen's lap, and rapidly disappearing into the dogs' eager mouths.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Jon, setting the dog food down on the counter. "Shamsky! Monkey! Heel!"  
  
They paid him absolutely no attention. Why would they? There was _bacon_.  
  
"Stephen, cut it out!" continued Jon.  
  
This command was at least noticed, if not followed: Stephen just looked up, puzzled. "But they love it...."  
  
"Of course they do. But it's not healthy for them. They don't know when to stop. You've got to stop for them."  
  
"But Jon, they give me these _looks_...."  
  
Jon could imagine. Probably the same look Stephen was giving him now: wide-eyed, plaintive, innocent. "Yeah, I hear you. But you've got to be strong. Pretend they're employees asking for raises."  
  
Stephen considered this, then held the plate up over his head. When Monkey and Shamsky sat back on their haunches and looked pitifully at him, he fixed them with his sternest eyebrows. "Uh-uh. You've had more than enough. Don't get greedy."  
  
"We'll just have to take them on an extra-long walk today," sighed Jon, taking the plate and looking dolefully at its contents.  
  
Tracey chose that moment to appear beside Charlene, a contentedly thumb-sucking Maggie on her hip. "Welcome back, honey. How was—hey, you didn't start eating already, did you?"  
  
Jon shook his head. "On the plus side, the dogs are going to love Stephen forever."  
  
Tracey didn't raise her voice, but her mouth was suddenly pressed into a spiderweb-thin line. "I _told_ you not to let them—"  
  
"They were _hungry!_ " protested Stephen.  
  
"We can always cook more," pointed out Jon, trying to be placating. "There's more bacon in the house, right?"  
  
"Nope. That was all of it."  
  
Stephen jumped. "You mean we won't be able to make BLTs for lunch?"  
  
"Should've thought of that earlier," said Tracey stiffly.  
  
"Come on, Trace," soothed Jon. "You know how the dogs get, and he's not used to them...."  
  
"Enough!" exclaimed Charlene, striding between them and grabbing the plate as she passed. "Jon, Tracey, out of the kitchen. Take the dogs. Stephen, stay here. I'm making crêpes, and you're helping."  
  
"Are those French?" asked Stephen suspiciously.  
  
"They'll be _bacon_ crêpes. If that's not American enough for you, consider it your penance for giving away our original breakfast. Now get out the milk and eggs." She waved at Tracey and Jon. "What are you three still doing here? Go!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
They ended up sitting on the steps of the back porch in awkward silence, throwing tennis balls for the dogs to retrieve. Maggie sat in the dirt at their feet, happily ripping up clods of grass.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Jon presently.  
  
"For...?" prompted Tracey.  
  
Jon laughed dryly. "Okay, you got me. I'm not entirely sure. But you're frustrated, so I figured apologizing was a safe bet."  
  
That earned him a smile. A good sign.  
  
"You realize, of course," she said lightly, "that your boyfriend is completely insane."  
  
Shamsky trotted up with one of the balls; Jon hurled it as far as he could off to the left. "No comment."  
  
"What, really? You seemed perfectly ready to defend him in there."  
  
"Hey now," protested Jon. "I told him off before you came in. If you had kept it up, it would've just made him angry and defensive."  
  
Monkey appeared with a ball in front of Tracey, but didn't let it drop from his jaws. She took ahold of it and wriggled it gently for a moment; when he still didn't let go, she sat back and waited. It wasn't long before the dog got bored and dropped the ball, at which point she took it and lobbed it to the right.  
  
"That one went farther than mine," remarked Jon. "Should've let you be the one to pitch for the Mets."  
  
"Stephen's always defensive, no matter what you do," she pointed out, ignoring the change of subject. "He doesn't need your help to stand up for himself."  
  
"That's just it, though," said Jon, as Shamsky bounded up again. "He does. Listen, when you stand up for something, it's because you're sure of it, right?" He took the tennis ball, hurled it, and wiped the dog slobber off on his pants. "He stands up for things because he's _not_ sure about them. He gets defensive to cover his insecurities. The more insecure he is, the louder he gets."  
  
"By that logic, he'd be insecure pretty much all the time," observed Tracey.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
He let that sink in for a beat, then added, "Don't be too hard on him, okay? He doesn't cope well with being yelled at. He doesn't know how to handle it gracefully. You do. You're self-sufficient. You don't need me backing you up."  
  
Monkey reappeared. "Maybe not," said Tracey, taking the ball, "but sometimes," and she chucked it fiercely into the distance, "I'd like to have it anyway."  
  
Jon put a hand (the one without traces of dog drool) on her shoulder. "I'll work on it. I promise."  
  
She sighed heavily and looked up at him. "Thanks."  
  
"Love you, babe."  
  
"Love you too," she echoed, and let him draw her into a kiss.  
  
When they broke apart, Shamsky was sitting impatiently in front of them, with a look that clearly said, "Will you stop slobbering all over each other already? These balls are in urgent need of throwing." Monkey, meanwhile, had given up on them altogether and was looking hopefully at Maggie, who used both hands to pick up the ball he had dropped in front of her and valiantly lob it as far as she could manage (which turned out to be about three feet).  
  
Jon and Tracey both laughed, took their respective tennis balls, and threw them in unison. They fell silent again as the dogs raced off together, but this time it was a comfortable silence.  
  
"So," remarked Jon presently, "how's Charlene rate on the 'completely insane' scale?"  
  
His wife winked. "Now, honey. A lady never kisses and tells."  
  
A second later, Jon was pink to the collar and trying to dismiss several dozen different mental images at once. "Oh. Uh. That wasn't exactly what—"  
  
"Maggie, don't eat that!" yelped Tracey.  
  
Jon snatched his daughter up from the grass, and the next few minutes were spent enticing their daughter to spit out as much of the clod of earth as possible.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
They ended up gathered around the dining room table: the adults devouring crêpes, George dozing on Stephen's arm after a bottle, Maggie in a high chair determinedly refusing to eat her creamed spinach.  
  
Tracey, the only one of them who worked on Fridays, had gone, so this task fell to Jon. "Come on, honey, just try some, you're going to love it. Creamed spinach. Mmm-mm, delicious creamed spinach..."  
  
Maggie shook her head, mouth firmly closed.  
  
"Okay, who am I kidding? Nobody likes creamed spinach. But, come on, kid, we already know you'll eat dirt. This tastes about as good, and is much more nutritious, I promise."  
  
A series of thumps indicated that Nate was using his new favorite method of descending a staircase: jumping with both feet down every step. A moment later he came unsteadily in the door; he had apparently decided to hop the whole way, and was wobbling on his left foot.  
  
"Hey, slugger!" said Jon. "Ready for breakfast? Delicious creamed spinach!"  
  
"Dad- _dy!_ " the boy protested, laughing. This was too much for his already strained balance, and as he hopped forward he swayed, arms flailing, before falling flat with a thud.  
  
Stephen gasped in horror, clutched George closer, and half rose. Jon put a hand firmly on his shoulder.  
  


  
He turned to Jon, eyes wide with shock. "Jon—you're not going to just let—"  
  
"Hold on," said Jon sternly.  
  
They held frozen like that for a moment. Nate wriggled, then clambered to his feet, still grinning. "Daddy," he repeated, "want _food!_ Not _baby_ food!"  
  
Jon grinned in return. "If you ask Aunt Charlene nicely, she might make something extra-special just for you."  
  
Nate brightened. "Please, Aunt Cholly?"  
  
"No problem, kiddo," said Charlene, and she grinned too. It was infectious. "Come on into the kitchen and let's see what we can find."  
  
Once they were out of the room Jon turned to Stephen, relaxing his grip. "You all right?"  
  
"How did you know," said Stephen shakily, "that he was okay?"  
  
"I didn't. If it turned out something was wrong, I would have gone straight to him. But you can't run to them every time they trip." He looked curiously at Stephen. "I'm surprised to get this from you, frankly. Don't you always complain that we shouldn't coddle kids so much?"  
  
"Well, yeah," replied Stephen, "but that doesn't apply to _mine_." He looked down at George, still contentedly asleep. "At least, not to this one. I _tried_ not to coddle my kids, Jon, and it didn't _work_."  
  
"You do need to give them attention. You just can't smother them. Find a middle ground."  
  
"Middle grounds," declared Stephen, "are for weak people who can't make decisions."  
  
"Do you think I'm weak?" asked Jon gently.  
  
"Well, you _are_ losing a battle of wills with a one-and-a-half-year-old."  
  
"Hey, you think this is easy? Here, let's trade. I'll hold George, and you see how well you do with the spinach."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen had no more success than Jon had. When Charlene offered to take a shot at it, both men eagerly relinquished the job; and when, five minutes later, Maggie was awkwardly maneuvering the spoon with her own hands and actually getting half of the spinach into her mouth, Jon threw up his hands, declared his quest to be a parent a lost cause, and urged Stephen to go get dressed so that they could take Monkey and Shamsky for a W-A-L-K.  
  
It wasn't quite the dog days of summer yet, but by late morning it was already more than pleasantly warm, so the two men set off in T-shirts and shorts. Jon wasn't sure he had ever seen Stephen in a T-shirt before, aside from the odd tuxedo-printed tee. This one was powder blue and had WELCOME JESUS printed on the front in large block letters. ("I just want to be prepared," he had explained of the design.)  
  
The area was suburban, but with plenty of yard space between the huge houses, which meant long roads and lots of plants and almost no people around. The dogs loved it.  
  
Stephen and Jon, each holding a leash, walked along in companionable silence—or so Jon thought, until Stephen tripped on the sidewalk and nearly fell over.  
  
Jon stopped. "You all right?"  
  
"Fine. Fine." Stephen came to a stop too, brushing himself off. "Just tired. Fine."  
  
Jon studied him for a moment. He _did_ look tired. But that made sense, didn't it? For all intents and purposes, he was a working mother with a newborn, and he had insisted on going full speed ahead with both. And when had he last slept through the night?  
  
"Stephen," said Jon. "Go home. Lie down for a while."  
  
"But the dogs...."  
  
Jon took Monkey's leash from him. "I've been walking them on my own for years. I can handle it. You need some rest."  
  
"I'm not weak, Jon."  
  
"I know."  
  
Looking briefly around to make sure the street was empty, Jon switched both leashes into his left hand (the dogs had found a fascinating bush a few meters ahead, so they were occupied for the moment) and reached for Stephen with his right. Despite the lack of witnesses, Stephen caught it, turning the gesture into an innocuous handshake.  
  
"I'll see you when you get back, then," he said.  
  
"See you," echoed Jon, and watched him go until tension on both leashes pulled him forward again.  
  
_Stephen. I don't want to coddle you any more than I do our kids, but everyone has weak moments, and when you do I'll pick you up if you need it. You know that._  
  
Don't you?


	5. Bananas Are Not The Only Fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Eleanor Holmes Norton](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/85766/april-24-2007/eleanor-holmes-norton); [bananas](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-november-10-2003/prince-charles-scandal); [quotidian existence](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-march-29-2007/sadness).
> 
> I hadn't seen _The West Wing_ when I originally wrote this, but in retrospect, that last scene is [very "Noël"](http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=blog&id=57946).

_The night was dark and starless, the road empty except for the Chevy on the shoulder, lit up by the flashing red and blue of a patrol car behind it. The driver rolled down his window and leaned winsomely out as the cop approached._  
  
"Your license and registration, sir?"  
  
The driver patted his pockets, then looked back at the man in uniform with youthful chagrin. "I'm so sorry, officer, it seems I don't have them with me...."  
  
"Suspicious," growled the cop through his moustache. "Very suspicious. I'm afraid you'll have to come down to the precinct for questioning. There have been reports of sexual assault in this area."  
  
"Oh, how awful! I suppose you'd better bring me in, then."  
  
"Cut! Good job, people. Nicely done. Let's wrap this up and get to the interrogation."  
  
The crew began to move, shutting off spotlights and folding up cameras. The driver leaned further out the window and craned his neck. "Gino, I really think I could have been more convincingly innocent there..."  
  
"Stuff it, Tyrone," said the director impatiently. "Nobody's watching this for the character development."  
  
"...and there's the pitch..."  
  
_He sat in a metal chair on one side of the desk, while across from him the cop paced on the tiles._  
  
"Please, officer," said Tyrone, undoing the top button of his shirt, "I'm sure we can work something out...."  
  
"...it's a hit! And he's off—Sosa is really not having a good inning, ladies and gentlemen—"  
  
_He dropped to his bare knees on the cold tiled floor, and the cameras closed in...._  
  
"—it's a double! The Nats' third double this inning, giving them a 2-0 lead..."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 3, 2007**  
(Continued)  
  
He woke with a start.  
  
"Morning, sunshine," said Jon's voice. "Feel better?"  
  
Stephen rubbed the sleep from his eyes, found his glasses, put them on, and did a quick inventory. He was on the couch in the den; Jon was on one of the chairs, a can of beer in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other; it was still light outside; and the Mets game was on the television.  
  
"Hungry," he muttered. Jon handed him the chips.  
  
"It's a good thing you're awake," he said as Stephen propped himself up to a sitting position and began to eat. "Now I can yell at the TV all I want. — _Another_ double? What are they _doing?_ "  
  


  
Stephen focused on the patter of the game. _This is here. This is now. This is real._ "Who's playing?"  
  
"Mets and the Nationals. And you better root for the Mets, or I may have to hurt you."  
  
"Of course I'm rooting for the Mets, Jon. They're the American team on the field."  
  
"Uh, Stephen? The Nationals are based in DC."  
  
"Exactly. It's a district, not a state. Therefore, it's not part of the United States."  
  
Jon looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.  
  
Stephen glared his most indignant glare. "Don't laugh at me, Jon! That's just _logic_. And you can't talk me out of this one. Eleanor Holmes Norton already tried."  
  
"Well, I certainly wouldn't presume to try to out-argue Eleanor Hol—Don't _walk_ him! Sosa, you suck!"  
  
While Jon railed at the judgment of the pitcher, questioned the ability of his coach, and made various allegations about the virtue of his mother, Stephen went to forage in the kitchen.  
  
Charlene claimed to be mortally offended by TV dinners, so most of the foodstuffs to be found either required extensive preparation or were painfully natural. Fortunately, Jon had had the wisdom to fill the pantry with snack food. Stephen grabbed another bag of chips, a can of heavily salted peanuts, and then, just for variety, a banana.  
  
Jon's cursing out of the television reached impressive heights of force and creativity as the game went on. Stephen, who respected nothing quite so much as a good shouting, observed in admiration until it broke for commercial. Then he asked, "Where's everyone else?"  
  
"Tracey and Charlene took Nate to a movie. _Ratatouille_. Charlene will like the food, Tracey will like the animals, and Nate will like the fart jokes. The dogs are tethered in the yard; the babies are napping, at least for the moment. Probably shouldn't talk about that too much, or we'll jinx it."  
  
"Good plan. Throw me a beer."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When Jon next looked up from the game, Stephen was peeling the banana, watching the television with half-lidded eyes. It was a respectably sized fruit, firm and ripe, and rather than taking a normal-sized bite from the end he slid a good several inches of its length into his mouth, cheeks working slightly.  
  
Jon let out a low whistle. "Now _that_ is talent."  
  
Stephen looked at him, blinking. "Hmm?" he asked around the banana before drawing it out with ridiculously erotic slowness. "'S just eating a banana."  
  
"Well, yeah, but...there are times when a banana isn't just a banana, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Stop trying to be mysterious, Stewart."  
  
Now it was Jon's turn to blink. How long had Stephen been deep-throating fruits without thinking about it? "Uh, well, you know how, in sex ed classes, they demonstrate how to put a condom on a banana...?"  
  
"Yeah...?"  
  
Jon raised his eyebrows.  
  
It was like watching a fluorescent light come on: flickers of connection, insight, and surprise, and then the full-blown radiance of knowledge lit up Stephen's face. "Oh. _Oh!_ "  
  
He held the banana a little away from himself like some curious new specimen in need of further study. "I didn't notice..."  
  
Jon leered. " _I_ noticed. Believe me, you shouldn't be wasting that on bananas."  
  
There was a crack of the bat and a roar from the crowd, and Jon's attention was drawn wholly to the game.  
  
He glanced down a few seconds later to find Stephen kneeling in front of him and reaching for his belt. "Whoa, whoa, easy there!"  
  
Stephen froze. "I thought—I thought you wanted—"  
  
"Well, yeah, but not right this minute!" protested Jon. "Stephen, I love you, but the Mets are on."  
  
His eyes flicked from Stephen to the game to Stephen frowning to the announcers talking to—  
  
"How can you say that so _casually?_ "  
  
"What? What did I say?" stammered Jon, wondering which of Stephen's strange notions he had tripped over this time.  
  
"That you—that you—" Stephen looked away. "—love me?"  
  
Wasn't it supposed to be the _girlfriend_ who wanted to have a big emotional discussion while you were trying to watch sports?  
  
But somehow Jon figured Stephen would consider himself to be more important even than the Mets, so he swallowed his pride as a fan, put aside his years of team loyalty, reached for the remote, and put the game on mute.  
  
Leaning forward, he cupped Stephen's chin, tilting it up to look into his eyes. "Stephen? I love you. Very much."  
  


  
Stephen squirmed like a little kid stuffed into itchy formal clothing. "You say that like you're sure."  
  
"Well, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"But aren't you nervous, Jon? Don't you worry?"  
  
"Come on, you know me. I worry all the time. I worry that the press will get ahold of this; I worry that you'll be embarrassed if it gets out; I worry that paparazzi will bother our wives and our kids; I worry that I'll do something to screw this up. But I don't worry about loving you."  
  
He held Stephen's gaze a little anxiously, unsure how to read the expression in the warm brown eyes; then Stephen gently shook off Jon's grasp and rested his forehead against Jon's knee.  
  
"Of course you're sure," he murmured. "What am I saying? Everybody loves me."  
  
Slowly, as if moving through molasses, he drew himself up and gave Jon's leg a manful pat, a watery smile on his face. "Watch your game, Jon."  
  
Jon clasped Stephen's hand in his own. "Listen...we can have victory sex when the Mets win, okay? Or, if you really can't wait, I've probably got this thing TiVoing at home anyway...."  
  
"Of course I can _wait_ , Jon," hissed Stephen, jerking his hand away. "Watch me."  
  
With that, he snatched the remote and cranked up the volume before stalking back over to the couch.  
  
Jon checked on him every so often throughout the rest of the game, but didn't notice anything unusual—unless you counted the fact that, after picking up his banana from where he had set it carefully down on its peel, Stephen took only normal-sized bites.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_He thinks I'm some sort of sex fiend,_ thought Stephen desperately, staring at the television without really hearing it.  
  
_And you're not?_ countered a horribly smug voice in the back of his mind. _You sure weren't holding back on that banana._  
  
_Shut up!_ snapped Stephen. _I didn't know!_  
  
It wasn't fair! Bananas were an everyday treat, one of the myriad marvels of quotidian existence, normal, respectable, enjoyed in broad daylight with the curtains open. He ate them often; he ate them in public; he ate them on his show. He liked the taste, and so he savored it. That was just how he rolled.  
  
It was bad enough that Stephen was having dreams about ( _not going to think about it, not going to think about it_ ), but now to find that every dream he'd ever had about this particular food—and he had them almost every week—was some kind of stealth encroachment on his staunchly defended normality? He had figured out long ago that baby carrots were a sinister trap, but he hadn't expected to find himself betrayed by _bananas._  
  
_I can still fix this,_ he told himself firmly. _He still says he loves me, so he hasn't figured the rest of it out. We can make this work. Watch the game like normal people, spend the rest of the day with our families like normal people, have sex late at night with the lights off like normal people. He won't suspect a thing._  
  
He forced himself to finish the fruit like a normal person, and spent the rest of the game trying to reinforce the barrier around all the things he didn't want to think about.  
  
The rest of the family came home not long afterwards. Nate got to watch a few innings from his father's lap before he was bundled off to take a bath. George woke up and, after being fed, spent a few innings doing the same—although in his case "watching" was more likely "looking in the general direction of." The dogs wandered in and out, occasionally begging for chips. Stephen changed a diaper. Charlene washed the dishes. Tracey went back to the Stewarts' house to pick up a few toys, leave behind some laundry, and feed the cat.  
  
In short, normal things happened. The kinds of things you would expect from two families with the respectable average of one father, one mother, one point five kids, and a dog.  
  
When the Mets lost, Jon gave Stephen a weak smile, shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and joked, "Comfort sex?"  
  
He was practically dragged up the stairs.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
There was something ferocious, almost frantic, in the way Jon was being kissed. Like Stephen was an old-time sailor about to ship out on a long voyage, or a draftee whose number had just been called.  
  
"Stephen, please, talk to me," he panted, hands kneading the other man's back (Stephen was still wearing a robe, but not a stitch underneath it) as his pelvis was ground into the mattress. "Tell me what you need."  
  
"I need—I need—I _need_ ," echoed Stephen, fingers twisting in Jon's curls. "Don't ask stupid questions."  
  
"It isn't stupid," protested Jon, and dipped a hand between their legs.  
  
Or, at least, he tried to. Stephen batted it away, then clung to the wrist as he slid down to crouch between Jon's bare thighs. Teasing Jon's balls with one hand, he used the other to press Jon's palm to his face before pulling it upwards, threading Jon's fingers through his hair.  
  
"Jon," he whispered, an order, a plea. " _Direct_ me."  
  
Muttering a curse that could have made paint peel, Jon gripped the back of Stephen's head and shoved him down.  
  
Any misgivings he might have developed about this were thrown to the wind when Stephen's talented mouth went to work. He hardly seemed to need any guidance to know what would be most sensitive at any given second, but even so he responded to Jon's attempts with almost preternatural swiftness. And if the man had a gag reflex, he sure wasn't showing it. (Not to mention the way he was _moaning_ all the way through, dear _god_ how did he pull that off.)  
  
Jon came in what was, for his age, record time. Stephen's timing remained pitch-perfect until the end, when he pulled away at exactly the wrong instant and got a faceful of, well, man-seed. But when Jon let him go and tried to wipe it off, Stephen ducked away. Maybe his timing hadn't faltered after all.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
As Stephen flopped down onto the mattress at his side, Jon marshaled his strength (what was left of it; his whole lower half seemed to have turned to jelly, but he wasn't going to need it for this anyway) and rolled over to face him. "Stephen. You were fantastic."  
  
The other man flashed him a pleased smile. "'S what I do."  
  
"No kidding." Jon pressed his lips to Stephen's jaw. "You have _got_ to show me how to do that."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"It's high time we switched this up a little," asserted Jon, nibbling at Stephen's neck. "Give me a chance," he continued, sweeping his fingers down Stephen's side, "to do to you," kissing his collarbone, "all the delicious things," kneading the back of his suddenly-tense thigh, "you do to me—can't promise I'll be as good," running his thumb over the scar across Stephen's stomach, "but practice makes perfect—"  
  
" _Stop!_ "  
  
In the next second Jon was flat on his back, pinned against the bed by a viselike grip on his arms.  
  


  
"Stop it!" cried Stephen shrilly, leaning over him in the darkness. "You don't know what you're doing, you can't, just stop, get back, stay away, _don't!_ " He gave Jon a fierce shove. "You got off! Stop there! Let it be enough! Why can't you let that be enough—?"  
  
"Stephen, you're scaring me!"  
  
Stephen broke off, panting heavily. Jon tried to search his face, but the darkness was too thick, the shadows too deep.  
  
After a long tense pause he felt Stephen's grip ease; and then the other man scrambled away from him to cringe, breathing shakily, at the foot of the bed.  
  
"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I—"  
  
He shook his head, short and brisk, like a nervous tic. Another abbreviated shake, and then, as if noticing it for the first time, he scrubbed at the white spatter across his face with one of his star-patterned cuffs.  
  
Slowly, his much-joked-about decrepitude starting to catch up with him, Jon eased himself up on his elbows. "Stephen...."  
  
The word startled Stephen into action. He scrambled backwards, half sliding and half tumbling to the ground, grabbing for his discarded boxers, eagle-shaped slippers, the tassel of his robe.  
  
"Don't follow me, Jon," he begged, clinging to these as he got to his feet. "Please don't follow me."  
  
And then he was out the door.  
  
Jon stayed frozen until the sound of Stephen's footsteps had faded; then he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow to muffle a scream.


	6. Hiding and Seeking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: Jon's appearance on [_Jack's Big Music Show_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack%27s_Big_Music_Show).

**August 4, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
He woke up with a stiff neck, and opened his eyes to see yellow.  
  
It took him a moment to trace both of these facts to the same source: he was curled up awkwardly on a huge yellow beanbag chair, head craned to rest on a friendly-looking plush duck. George's room.  
  
Looking around, Stephen realized that the baby's eyes were open and fixed curiously on him.  
  
"Hey there," he said, sitting up.  
  
George's eyes widened, and he let out a whimper.  
  
"Oh, honey, what's wrong? What is it? Come here." Going over to the crib, Stephen scooped his son carefully into his arms and pressed one finger against the baby's hand; George stopped fussing as he gripped it.  
  
"You've never seen Daddy asleep before, have you?" cooed Stephen, pitch high and exaggerated. "Usually you keep Daddy awake, don't you. Don't worry. It's okay. I've got you."  
  
He carried George back over to the beanbag chair and eased himself down. "There we go. You're okay. Yes, you are! No reason to cry," he said, although the baby was now holding his finger in complete contentment. "Everything's fine. Just fine."  
  
There was a scratchy whisper as the door slid open over the carpet, and Jon's voice said quietly, "Stephen?"  
  
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Stephen to George, noting Jon's feet out of the corner of his eye without turning his own gaze any higher. "It's Jon. Say 'Hi, Jon'!" He tilted George so that the baby's face was pointed in Jon's direction, and, taking his hand, waved it gently back and forth.  
  
"Good morning, George," said Jon. "Stephen, breakfast is ready. Do you...?"  
  
"You hear that, kiddo? Breakfast! Does my baby boy want some breakfast?" asked Stephen, turning George back so that their eyes met. "Yes he does. Because he didn't eat all night tonight, baby's getting better at sleeping through the night, which is good, only he'll wake up hungry! Won't you?"  
  
He got to his feet again. "Come on, George, let's go get some breakfast."  
  
The baby gurgled in approval.  
  
Stephen kept up the one-sided conversation as they walked down the hall, which held George's attention and kept Jon from trying to join in. Except for the moment when Jon held out his glasses, which he took, Stephen didn't acknowledge the other man at all. When they reached the foot of the stairs, not far from the kitchen doorway, he felt Jon's hand grab his shoulder.  
  
"Stephen, don't ignore me. Please...."  
  
Stephen's heart ached. He kept his gaze firmly on George's eyes, and that alone held him steady.  
  
"Hear that?" he continued, voice still an octave higher than normal. "Jon's worried. Yes, he is. Because he's afraid he did something to make Daddy sad. But he doesn't need to worry, does he, George? No, he doesn't! Because he didn't do—"  
  


  
His voice caught, and when he repeated the phrase it was in his natural tone: "Jon didn't do anything wrong."  
  
The grip on his shoulder eased. George listened to the silence for a minute, then began to fuss again.  
  
"There! What did I tell you? You're getting hungry. That's what happens in the morning, when you don't eat all night. You get hungry. Come on, George, let's go eat."  
  
He pulled away from Jon's hand and into the kitchen.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The voice of Carly Simon cut through the dawn stillness, giving Phoebe a rude awakening:  
  
_You're so vain  
You prob'ly think this song is about you  
Yeah, you're so vain  
You prob'ly think this song is about you, don't you, don't you?_  
  
The verse was half over before she remembered that this was her "calls relating to Stephen Colbert" ring tone, and therefore needed to be answered.  
  
She rolled over, found her purse on the hotel nightstand, and groggily dug out the cell phone. "Y'ello?"  
  
"Dr. Moreau? It's Jon."  
  
"Jon. Right. Hi. What's up?"  
  
"Uh, I didn't wake you up, did I?"  
  
"Yeah, you did. Time difference, you know."  
  
"Wait, where _are_ you?"  
  
"San Diego. I'm doing a lecture series. Can you wait a minute? I'll go grab a cup of hotel coffee."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."  
  
Phoebe put down the phone and found the coffee-and-tea assortment. She had preset the pot to heat itself in the morning, but of course she hadn't told it to start for another hour, so the coffee wasn't ready. So much for that. After switching it on anyway, she ate one of the complimentary biscuits, then went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. It helped.  
  
Thus refreshed, such as it was, she picked up the phone again, grabbed a pad and pen, and sat down at the stiff-backed chair by the window. "Okay, I'm back. What's going on?"  
  
"Something's up with Stephen."  
  
Somehow, Phoebe wasn't surprised. "Why isn't he the one talking to me? Did something happen?"  
  
"No, no, he's not hurt! He's just...his moods are a wreck. More than usual, I mean. But he won't admit that anything's wrong."  
  


  
Phoebe's pen hovered over the hotel stationary. "Has he tried to hurt himself?"  
  
"What? No."  
  
"Has he tried to hurt George?"  
  
"No! How can you ask that?"  
  
"Jon, if he's moody, it could be postpartum depression, or any number of other things—but unless he's a danger to himself or others, you can't force him to get treatment. Has he seemed reluctant to be left alone with George?"  
  
"Not at all. I mean, he spent all last night in George's room."  
  
Phoebe took a moment to digest this.  
  
Well.  
  
If they were spending nights together, that threw a whole new wrench in the gears. But it was hardly a topic to discuss on a cell phone, especially this early in the morning.  
  
"It sounds like there's no immediate problem," she said, using her most reassuring Doctor Voice. "It's common knowledge," in fact it had been the subject of a _USA Today_ infographic, "that we're doing regular checkups on Stephen's hormones, and of course it's routine to screen for postpartum depression. The results of those tests, and what Stephen does with them, are entirely up to Stephen. You understand?"  
  
"Yeah," said Jon reluctantly. "Yeah, I got it. Anything I should be doing in the meantime?"  
  
"Is it fair," said Phoebe carefully, "to assume that you are in a position to keep a close eye on him?"  
  
"Uh. You could say that."  
  
"Good. Make sure he's getting balanced meals, and as much regular sleep as possible. And don't push him too hard, but let him know you're ready to listen without judging if he wants to talk. Can you do that?"  
  
It was all standard stuff, and Jon had to know that, but he breathed a sigh of relief anyway. "Sure. I've got it."  
  
"Good man. How's George doing, by the way?"  
  
"Oh, George is great." Jon's voice softened as he warmed to the topic. "Makes an unholy racket when he's hungry or needs a change, but other than that he's not really fussy. And he's easy to please. And he's finally slept through the night. He's such a sweet kid. Stephen adores him."  
  
"Good to hear," said Phoebe, smiling herself, and not only because a difficult baby would have strained even Stephen's Herculean powers of denial. "Now, you can always call me if there's an emergency, but in the meantime, try not to worry too much. All right?"  
  
Jon took a steadying breath. "I'll try."  
  
"Have a good day, Jon."  
  
"Sure thing. You too."  
  
Just as she hung up, there was a shrill beeping noise from the other end of the room. Phoebe jumped, then saw that it was just the coffee pot, blinking a little green light at her in smug satisfaction.  
  
"Oh, sure, _now_ you finish," she said irritably.  
  
But she had more calls to make, so she went over to it and poured herself a cup.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
As usual, George cried when he had to get shots. Stephen could sympathize; Dr. Livingston had insisted on taking some blood, which was sort of the reverse process but still involved unnecessarily pointy needles. (She always claimed these tests were routine, but how much blood could simple tests need? Stephen made a mental note to eat garlic before the next appointment and see how she reacted.)  
  
She also sat him down and asked a bunch of questions, some of which seemed to Stephen to be unnecessarily touchy-feely. Was he sleeping all right? No, of course not; there was a hungry baby waking him up half the time. How about eating? Sure, he was eating. Did he have trouble concentrating? These questions were boring and he wanted to go do something else. Did he feel sad? Angry? Well, he was going to _get_ angry pretty soon....  
  
Over his objections, she wrote a prescription for something antidepressant-y. He tore it up once he was in the parking garage and threw the pieces over the side; George stared in fascination as the wind carried them away.  
  
Okay, maybe he had been a little on edge. But now that the shots were over George was content again, and Stephen brought the baby home with a clean bill of health, which went far to improving his own good mood. The baby was okay. That made one of them.  
  
Two. It made _two_ of them.  
  
No sooner was he in the door, though, than Nate came running up to him. "Uncle Steben! I want Jack!"  
  
Stephen frowned at him. "Who?"  
  
"Jack. Jack!" repeated the kid, clearly under the impression that _everybody_ knew who Jack was.  
  
"Sorry," said Jon, appearing behind his son. "He's talking about _Jack's Big Music Show_ —we were supposed to have watched it yesterday, only your house doesn't get the channel."  
  
"Get the channel, Uncle Steben!" added Nate.  
  
"I've been trying to turn this into an object lesson on cable packages, but it's not working out so well." Ruffling the boy's hair, Jon addressed him: "C'mon, slugger, Uncle Stephen can't buy a whole channel just for when we're here. We'll watch it when we get home, okay?"  
  
"I'll get the channel," said Stephen quickly.  
  
"Really?" Jon's eyes glowed (how did he _do_ that?) in appreciation. "Thanks."  
  
Stephen smiled nervously. "Sure."  
  
For a moment they just looked at each other, sort of. Jon kept glancing back down at Nate; Stephen, at George or the floor or nothing in particular.  
  
This was going to be an embarrassing revelation, but it couldn't be more awkward than the silence. "And," added Stephen, "I have one of the episodes. If you don't mind watching a rerun. It's on tape."  
  
Jon's brow furrowed. "What are you doing with an episode of _Jack's Big Music Show_?"  
  
"Um." Stephen shuffled. "It's the one you're in. With that plaid suit, and the really stupid hat."  
  
"You're _kidding_. You actually taped a show for three-to-five-year-olds just to see me in a stupid hat?"  
  
"Oh, that's rich coming from you, Stewart. I _have_ seen the bobblehead of me in your office."  
  
"Fair enough." But Jon still had that (stupid) (adorable) sheepish blush on his face, and it stayed there even as he got his bearings enough to turn to Nate and say, "How about it, slugger? Want to watch the episode with Jack and your old man?"  
  
The kid lit up. "Yeah!"  
  
"I'll go find it," said Stephen. "Here, take George."  
  
Their arms touched as he handed the baby over, and at the contact Jon flinched ever so slightly, then looked up at Stephen with nervous, worried eyes.  
  
Stephen quashed the urge to wrap Jon in his arms and give a wholehearted demonstration of just how okay he was. There were kids watching. Instead he stepped closer, pressing a kiss to George's forehead but making sure to show that he was totally fine having incidental contact with Jon in the process.  
  
"It's okay," he said quietly as his head was bent before Jon's. "Don't worry."  
  
Then he straightened up, smiled, and went off to search the box of unsorted tapes.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Nate was just as enthralled by the episode as he had been when he had first seen it. From her playpen Maggie watched about half of it; the other half was spent stacking and restacking her set of primary-colored plastic rings. From his bassinet George alternated between watching the screen, watching the people around him, and sucking on the green ring, which Stephen had lifted from Maggie when she wasn't looking. Stephen, for his part, spent most of the time watching George, but he turned to the screen whenever Jon was on.  
  
Jon just watched Stephen.  
  
They had made eye contact, and then physical contact, and Stephen hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, he'd initiated the latter. That worked against the "he's secretly repulsed by me" theory—which was great, except that it was the only theory Jon had.  
  
At least things were better than they had been in the morning. Maybe now Stephen would be willing to have a conversation.  
  
Of course, it would probably have to wait until Nate's nap, which didn't seem likely to happen any time soon: when the show was over, he was immediately ready to go. "Play with me, Daddy!"  
  
"Play with you? Sure, kiddo. What do you want to play?"  
  
"Hide and seek!" declared Nate.  
  
"All right. Do you want to hide, or do you want to seek?"  
  
"I'm the seeker. Hide, Daddy. Hide, Uncle Steben."  
  
Jon glanced over at Stephen. "You want to play?"  
  
Stephen grinned. "Are you kidding? I am a _champion_ hider. When I was a kid, I was famous for being great at hiding. One time, when I was six, I hid under the neighbor's deck, and nobody found me for _eight hours_."  
  
"That's impressive," said Jon appreciatively. "Bet you worried your parents, though."  
  
Now Stephen just looked confused. "Why?"  
  
Jon did a double-take. What did he mean, _why?_ How could a six-year-old vanish for eight hours and not send his parents into a panic?  
  
Before he could say any of this, though, Nate interrupted: "Go hide! Now!"  
  
So there was nothing for Jon to do but get up and leave the room, while Nate covered his eyes and began counting: "One. Two. Four. Eleven. A hun'red. Sixty. Fifteen. A million..."  
  
Jon cut left, and ended up in the kitchen. Bad idea: he wouldn't fit under the sink, and there weren't any other good hiding places here. He doubled around, hurrying now so as to find a serviceable spot before Nate got to ten (which could happen at any second).  
  
The hall closet. There were some coats in it, but it had plenty of space, and a sliding door that Nate would be able to open. He ducked in, slid the door most of the way closed, and stood in the semidarkness next to something bulky and trimmed with fur.  
  
"Jon?" asked the fur.  
  
He managed not to yelp, but it was a close thing.  
  
Then the coat was pushed aside and Stephen pulled him under the hanger. "Back here," he whispered. "Better camouflage."  
  
"Um, okay."  
  
Stephen's arm remained around Jon's waist, their bodies touching in the cramped space from head to foot.  
  
"Are you," murmured Jon, "okay with this?"  
  
"With what?"  
  
With what, indeed? With this particular moment of contact? With the sex? With the arrangement? With Jon's presence? With anything?  
  
"With—this," said Jon lamely, shrugging.  
  
For answer Stephen wrapped both arms around him and pulled him closer, kissing his neck. "I'm okay, Jon. I'm okay. You don't need to worry."  
  


  
"I can't _not_ worry, Stephen. Last night. What was that about?"  
  
Stephen's hands clenched, fingers digging into Jon's back. "Don't go there, Jon. We don't need to talk about it. It's okay."  
  
"If it's something I did—"  
  
"No! It's not you. It's not!"  
  
"If you're unhappy about—"  
  
"I'm happy," whispered Stephen. "You make me happy, Jon. Please believe me. You and George, you make me so happy."  
  
"But Stephen—"  
  
"Shh!" Stephen covered Jon's mouth with his hand. A moment later Jon heard the little footsteps outside in the hall, and Nate trotted over to the closet and started to open the door.  
  
Jon coughed.  
  
"Aha!" crowed Nate. "Daddy! Come out!"  
  
Extricating himself from Stephen's embrace, Jon pushed past the coat, slid the panel of the door all the way to the side, and grinned. "Oh no! You found me!"  
  
"Found you!" agreed Nate. "Not found Uncle Steben."  
  
Jon dropped to his knees next to the boy and lowered his voice. "About that..." He looked meaningfully back into the closet, then winked at Nate.  
  
It was an absolute joy to watch the kid put it together.  
  
With a grin Nate leaned through the door to double-check, just in case Daddy had gotten it wrong. Sure enough, there was the second pair of feet. "Uncle Steben!" exclaimed Nate. "Come out!"  
  
"You heard the man, Stephen," said Jon mischievously. "Come out of the closet."  
  
" _NO!_ "  
  
It was a shriek. Jon's heart nearly stopped.  
  
Nate gave his father an anxious look, as if sensing there was something going on here beyond the violation of fair play. "Daddy," he protested uncertainly, "he's _found_. It's the _rules_."  
  
"Yeah, son, I know." Jon put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Stephen? Stephen, it's just a game. It's okay. It's just a game. Come join us."  
  
There was a pause, then the coats rustled and Stephen emerged, his face pale but his expression determinedly stern.  
  
"You go hide, kiddo," said Jon gently to his son. "Daddy and Uncle Stephen will count."  
  
"No!" insisted Nate. "Daddy got found first. Daddy hasta count. Nate and Uncle Steben hide."  
  
"You heard the man, Jon," agreed Stephen solemnly. "Start counting."  
  
Jon looked desperately up at him, and saw that it was no use struggling. He would only lose, and in front of Nate, which meant his all-important parental authority might be jeopardized.  
  
"All right," he said, standing up and covering his eyes with his hands as he turned to face away from the other two. "Hurry up now. One...two...."  
  
He heard the speedy little footsteps of Nate charging away; he heard the slower tread of Stephen moving off, then turning back.  
  
And then Stephen was behind him, pressing against him, lips at his ear, and Jon would have turned to look except that Stephen's hands were on his, holding them firmly over his eyes.  
  
"Find me," whispered Stephen.  
  
And then he was gone.

* * *


	7. In Nomine Patris at Filii et Amicus Iudaici

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [locked into Heaven](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182807/april-09-2007/end-of-lent); ["I toss to you."](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/72700/august-08-2006/sign-off---toss-to-jon)
> 
> The title is Latin for "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Jewish Friend." Father Ted is a sidelong reference to, well, [Father Ted](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Father_Ted).

"Mmm..."  
  
"I—oh—ooh. Stephen—ohhhh—Stephen, hold up."  
  
"What's wrong, Jon?"  
  
"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"  
  
"What does it feel like?"  
  
Jon gasped as Stephen's hips rolled against his. There had to be words to describe what this felt like, but it was suddenly impossible to think of any. One thing was certain: "Okay" didn't cut it.  
  
"I've got this under control, Jon."  
  
Somewhere between the door and the bed, during which his clothing seemed to have melted away, Jon realized that Stephen had _him_ under control.  
  
Not that he minded, really—and yet—and yet, he still wanted to ask—  
  
—he wanted to—  
  
—ohhhhh.  
  
_Next time,_ he resolved, and let Stephen lower him onto the sheets.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 5, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
"Jon! What are you still doing in bed? Jon, wake up!"  
  
Jon sleepily batted away the hands that were shaking him, rolled over, and looked for his clock. It wasn't there.  
  
Oh, right. This wasn't his house.  
  
"'timeizzit?" he mumbled.  
  
"Jon, Mass starts in _two hours._ You need to start getting ready!"  
  
Jon wasn't quite sure how many logical failings there were in this statement, but he had a feeling it was a lot. "Lemme sleep," he protested, turning his face to the pillow.  
  
"Don't tell me you forgot!" cried Stephen, shaking him some more.  
  
Sensing danger, Jon began to wake up. "Forgot what?"  
  
"George's baptism! It's today!"  
  
Was that all? "Stephen, you said so about eight times last night, remember? Tried to get us to go to bed right after dinner so we'd all be up in time. Relax. I'll be there."  
  
"You won't just be there, Jon, you'll be standing up in front of the whole congregation. You have got to put some effort into your appearance for once, because it's going to reflect on _me!_ "  
  
"Standing up in...wait, why? I can't be a godparent. Or did your priest suddenly decide to overlook my lack of eternal salvation?"  
  
"The _godfather_ has to be Catholic, but if he can't _be_ there, then _anyone_ can stand in his place and say the vows _for_ him, and that's _you!_ "  
  
Jon sat bolt upright. "When were you going to tell me about this?"  
  
"I just told you!"  
  
"Coulda given me a little more warning, couldn't you?"  
  
"You have two hours! That's plenty of time. Up!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tracey ended up driving. Charlene still hadn't renewed her U.S. license, and Stephen and Jon were way too nervous. Stephen was sitting up front to give Tracey directions, but he kept turning around to check on George, whose car seat was strapped into the bucket seat behind him, and talk to Jon.  
  
"Don't parents usually go to classes before their kids get baptized?" asked Jon.  
  
"For several weeks," confirmed Tracey, and in the rearview mirror she saw Jon's eyebrows twist themselves in knots. She wanted to be reassuring, but she was pretty frustrated about the lack of warning herself.  
  
"It'll be fine, Jon," insisted Stephen. "The questions are really easy. Like this: Father Ted says 'do you renounce Satan?' and you say...?"  
  
"...'yes'?" guessed Jon.  
  
"Close. 'I do.' Okay, another one. Father Ted says 'do you reject sin?' and you say...?"  
  
"'I do'?"  
  
"Yes! Another. He says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say...?"  
  
"Um..."  
  
"Remember, you're speaking for Jean-Claude du Fromage—"  
  
"Pierre Garrigou-Lagrange," corrected Charlene.  
  
"—that's what I said, Henri Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, Charlene's buddy who is actually Catholic and conveniently overseas. So, Father Ted says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say..."  
  
"...I do."  
  
"Exactly! See? Not so hard, is it?"  
  
Tracey smiled in spite of herself: Jon looked like he was actually starting to relax.  
  
"Left at the light," added Stephen. Tracey flipped on her blinker and switched lanes at the last minute. No sooner had she turned than she could see the spires.  
  
"And the parking lot entrance is on your right, after those trees." Stephen leaned over the seat again. "Jon?"  
  
"Yeah, Stephen?"  
  
"You know that, technically, none of this applies to you. You can say all the words of a sacred vow, but for you it isn't binding. God won't hold you to it."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And obviously the bits about God and sin and Jesus don't mean anything to you."  
  
"Not what they mean to you, no."  
  
Tracey pulled up to a space near the building and eased the van in; then, on an impulse, she waited.  
  
"But there are bits about taking care of George. About helping me bring him up right."  
  
"Stephen," said Jon gently. "When I say those, I'll mean them."  
  
"God won't hold you to those either."  
  
At last Tracey switched off the engine. "But I will," she said over the sudden quiet.  
  
Both men turned, as if just remembering that there was a person in the driver's seat.  
  
"I'm saying the same vows as he is," she reminded Stephen with a smile. "I'll make sure he keeps up his end of the bargain. Believe me, if he bails on his duties as pseudo-godfather and I find out, he'll want to go to hell for a little relief."  
  
"Don't _joke_ about that!" snapped Stephen.  
  
"Okay, okay, have it your way!" sighed Tracey, and shoved the door open harder than she meant to.  
  
Stephen climbed out of his own side, slid open the door next to George, and began to unbuckle the baby from his seat. Jon opened the door on the far side; Charlene, from the back, handed him Maggie, then helped Nate down.  
  
"Hey," said Jon in an undertone, putting a hand on Tracey's shoulder. "He doesn't mean—"  
  
She shrugged the hand away. "It's fine. Forget about it."  
  
And then she put the smile back on, just as the little group converged and set a course for the heavy double doors.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
From the moment they reached the doors, when the other three adults automatically dipped their fingers in the waiting bowl of water and crossed themselves, Jon felt like, well, a fish out of water.  
  
Father Ted was a wiry man with a fluffy mop of grey hair, large ears, and a smile that looked as if he had just made a joke and was waiting for you to start smiling with him. He only got a few minutes to talk with them before the service started, but Jon liked him immediately.  
  
Still, no amount of clerical affection could dispel the fish-out-of-water feeling, which returned in full force when the actual service started and everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do. Even Tracey fell automatically into form, facing straight ahead but moving her arms in perfect time with the multitude of old white Republicans around them. It was a good thing the kids were in the nursery, or they might have suspected their mother of turning into a robot.  
  
Jon wasn't sure how much he was supposed to be imitating, but the question was pretty much academic: even taking his cues from Tracey on his left and Stephen on his right, it was all he could do to stand up and sit down at the times that everyone else seemed to know by heart.  
  
If Tracey seemed almost robotic, Stephen was exactly the opposite.  
  
Stephen seemed _alive_.  
  
He was also quiet, respectful, and attentive, which was probably why it took Jon a long time to figure out how his bearing could be as familiar as it was.  
  
It hit him during one of the hymns. Everyone else knew the lyrics by heart ("Lord God something something God and Father something something"), which left Jon awkwardly quiet and watching Stephen to keep his mind off of the fact. It was a pleasant distraction: Stephen had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the music, hitting every note but not oversinging them, blending beautifully with the chorus of voices around him.  
  
All at once Jon recognized the Stephen who had sung with Manilow.  
  
After that, the rest tumbled into place. Stephen in church had the same bearing as Stephen on set. Maybe this audience wasn't here to see him, but there was energy in it. Enthusiasm. Stubborn, bullheaded, unstoppable belief. On this wave of faith Stephen was riding high, standing tall as he drew power from the people around him—and then radiated it back, pouring it into the hymn the same way he poured it into Tips of the Hat and ThreatDowns and the occasional celebrity duet.  
  
Like Stephen's audience, the people here represented a cross-section of the population that Jon rarely understood and often took issue with. And yet.  
  
And yet, there was something going on in both places. Faith, or maybe love, was so thick in the air that you could practically lean on it. Maybe he couldn't have put it into words (or wørds), but Stephen certainly felt it. More than that: he thrived on it, like a man taking a drink after forty days in the desert.  
  
_Or like a junkie on a hit.  
  
Wait, where did that come from?_  
  
Jon shook himself, then realized that the other congregants were lowering themselves back into the pews and took a hurried seat. _No need to be morbid, Stewart. Let the people have their fun._  
  
Next up was a prayer, and before it came a moment of silence, during which Jon knelt with the rest so as not to be too conspicuous. Then he realized that, since everyone else had heads bowed and eyes closed, they wouldn't see what he did anyway; he gladly took the opportunity to look openly at Stephen.  
  
The radiant look had been replaced by one of solemn intensity, as Stephen's lips moved ever so slightly along with whatever he was praying for.  
  
No, wait. He couldn't be voicing his prayer, not unless he was saying one thing over and over, because his mouth was definitely making the same motion again and again.  
  
Jon listened more closely. He caught the slightest whisper of sound, like an imitation of raindrops, _plip, plip, plip_ , but Stephen's lips were widening between each, showing his teeth, the vocalization of a long E, which would make it _plee, plee, plee..._  
  
Jon's heart skipped a beat.  
  
_Please, please, please, please, please, please, please..._  
  
Stephen was begging. For what, Jon had no idea. But then, it hadn't been meant for his ears in the first place.  
  


  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Are you prepared to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christian parents?"  
  
"We are," chorused Jon and Tracey.  
  
The twinkle in Father Ted's eye from their first meeting was gone, replaced with that particular brand of _gravitas_ that only a holy official can pull off. He turned it on George, who was looking curiously around from his place in Stephen's arms. "George William Colbert, the Christian community welcomes you with great joy...."  
  
Jon hadn't realized that this was going to take just short of forever. There were scripture readings (during which, thankfully, they got to sit), and prayers, and invoking of saints, and more prayers, and then Father Ted took George and anointed him with some kind of oil, and then there was some blessing, and then more praying.  
  
"This is the faith of the Church," said the priest at last, after a long description. "This is the faith in which the child is about to be baptized."  
  
_'About to'? He's been 'about to' for twenty minutes now!_  
  
Tracey's hand found his and squeezed it briefly. _Hang in there._  
  
"Do you reject Satan?"  
  
"I do," said the four in unison: Charlene and Stephen at the font, George in Stephen's arms, Jon and Tracey just behind them on Stephen's side.  
  
"And all his works?"  
  
_Isn't that sort of implied?_ "I do."  
  
"Do you reject sin, so as to live in the freedom of God's children?"  
  
"I do," they chorused, but this time Stephen's voice came half a step behind.  
  
"Do you reject the glamor of evil, and refuse to be mastered by sin?"  
  
"I do," said Charlene and Tracey. Jon waited a beat, then said "I do" in time with Stephen.  
  
"Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?"  
  
_Didn't we already do that?_ "I do," said Charlene and Tracey. "I do," said Jon a beat later.  
  
Stephen swayed.  
  
Without even thinking, Jon stepped forward and put an arm around him.  
  
To his credit, Father Ted didn't so much as raise an eyebrow in Jon's direction. "Are you all right, my son?" he asked gently.  
  
"Hm?" Stephen's brows furrowed; his eyes flicked around the sanctuary for a second, like he was reorienting himself. "Oh—uh—yeah. I do."  
  
Tracey and Charlene, meanwhile, were doing their best to cover for Jon's faux pas: Tracey stepping forward and putting a hand on Jon's shoulder, Charlene leaning against Stephen's side. God (or whatever) willing, they'd come off as a group that just happened to be especially close, and touchy-feely about it.  
  
There was a tense pause. George, oblivious, sucked on his hand.  
  
And then Father Ted said, "Do you believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth?"  
  
"I do," they chorused, Stephen in time with the others.  
  
He ought to have no problem with this bit. Stephen could recite this prayer in his sleep. (There was a time when Jon would have thought that an exaggeration. No more.)  
  
Except. Except that Stephen no longer looked like a man come home. He looked...not unhappy, exactly, but fidgety. Like an aide sent to a gathering of some fringe interest group on behalf of a politician too important to be there in person: doing his best to appear concerned for the sake of their votes, but desperately wishing to be somewhere else.  
  
He also looked—well, Jon would almost have said _uncomfortable in a suit_ , if that weren't completely unthinkable.  
  
George started to cry with surprise when the water was poured over his head, and Jon wanted to reassure him that it was almost over—but as it turned out, there was more anointing to be done, and then the baby had to be dressed in white and a candle had to be lit and another blessing had to be said and, yes, there was more prayer.  
  
At last the priest took George from Jon's arms and, taking care to support his head, held the baby up in front of the congregation. "George William Colbert," he pronounced, "welcome to the family of God."  
  
Several hundred people began to clap. George couldn't possibly know what the sound meant, but he stopped crying and stared out at the crowd in wonder.  
  
Jon glanced at Stephen for the umpteenth time, and finally let himself relax. The easy grace was back in Stephen's stance. At the sight of his son's first round of applause, he was practically glowing.  
  
When George was lowered, Stephen took him with a proud smile, and held him during the final blessing.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"That," declared Tracey, settling down on the living room couch and pouring herself a glass of red wine, "is an experience I could do without ever having again."  
  
"Lapsed?" inquired Charlene, taking the bottle.  
  
"No! I mean, I'm not the most active, but it's not the Church I have a problem with." Tracey shuddered. "It's _that_ church. Or any congregation where I can't take two steps without someone asking me whether my h—whether Jon has been Saved yet."  
  
"You're allowed to say 'husband' around me," remarked Charlene lightly. "I'm not Stephen's kind of Catholic."  
  
"Oh, good," breathed Tracey, and took a self-conscious sip of her wine.  
  
It wasn't Charlene's judgment that she worried about, really; it was her comfort in general. Tracey was keenly aware that she didn't have that till-death-do-us-part feeling with anyone except Jon. But she was definitely in _like_ with Charlene, and quite frequently in _lust_ with Charlene, and the last thing she wanted was for the other woman to feel somehow inadequate.  
  
When she looked up, though, Charlene was entirely intent on her own glass, which was so nearly empty that it could be tilted almost on its side for more thorough inspection.  
  
"Well, great," laughed Tracey. "Now I feel uncultured."  
  
Charlene blinked. "What, this? Oh, sorry, it's just a habit. Not that complex, I promise. Have you done any tastings before?"  
  
"Once at a party. I don't think any of it stuck, though."  
  
"I can walk you through it." She nodded at Tracey's glass. "You'll need to get that down to about two ounces first, though."  
  
"Better give me a minute," laughed Tracey. She wasn't about to start gulping it down, even though the men had been put in charge of the kids for the evening, so it wasn't like she couldn't indulge a little.  
  
"You know," remarked Charlene, while Tracey sipped as rapidly as she dared, "even Stephen wasn't always Stephen's kind of Catholic."  
  
"Hard to imagine."  
  
A mischievous smile crept across Charlene's face. "Back when we were freshmen in high school, he told me he wanted to run off to L.A. and be a godless actor."  
  
Red wine sprayed all over the carpet.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Stephen, Stephen, wait. I'm—ohhh—I'm serious—I don't think this is—ah!—such a good idea."  
  
"You don't? Because it sure feels like you do."  
  
"I like it, obviously, but I need to know—ngh! Don't you try the hip thing on me. I'm ready for the hip thing."  
  
"You certainly are."  
  
"That is _not_ what I—mmm." Bracing himself against the edge of the bed, Jon managed to peel them apart. "Stephen, you are amazingly distracting, but we need to talk."  
  
Sliding sinuously onto the edge of the mattress beside him, Stephen rested a hand on Jon's thigh and arched his eyebrows. "Do we, Jon? _Do_ we?"  
  
" _Yes,_ " insisted Jon, covering Stephen's wandering hand with his own and clamping it firmly in place. "Do you think you're going to hell for this?"  
  
The other man snorted with finely tuned derision. "Don't be stupid, Jon. As if you could keep Stephen Colbert out of heaven."  
  
"Then—are you enjoying it? I mean, is it something you want to be doing?"  
  
"Did I _feel_ unenthusiastic to you?"  
  
"Uh, not most of the time," admitted Jon, feeling his dick perk up hopefully at the memory. "But then when I tried to go down on you...."  
  


  
"So don't try to go down on me," snapped Stephen impatiently. "'Doctor, it hurts when I do this!' Then stop doing that!"  
  
"It's not just that!" protested Jon. "Listen, if you really hate getting blowjobs, that's fine, we can take that off the table. Is that it? Or is there something else upsetting you?"  
  
Stephen's head hung, fingers digging into Jon's leg. "Jon, please. You don't know what you're getting into."  
  
"Well, I was kinda hoping _you!_ "  
  
The other man twitched, then took a deep breath. "I'm not...you'll have to give me a minute. There's lube in the bureau, bottom right drawer...."  
  
"Aw, Stephen, you're missing the point," groaned Jon. "Not that I don't—I mean, I'd like to try it some time—but would you ever let us switch that up, or is it always going to be a one-way thing?"  
  
"That's not how this works, Jon! You toss to me. I don't toss to you. Remember?"  
  
Jon's heart sank like a rock. " _Stephen._ This isn't our shows. I'm not your boss here. Hell, I'm not even technically your boss _at_ the shows anymore. I wouldn't be sleeping with you at all if I had you by the purse strings! Did you think—?"  
  
"No! Nothing like that!"  
  
"Then what—?"  
  
"I can't _tell_ you!" cried Stephen, head snapping up to glare at him, and were his eyes shining more than normal? "Why do you have to keep asking? Why can't you just back off?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You liberals with your questions and your—what?"  
  
"I said, okay," repeated Jon. "No questions."  
  
"Oh, thank God," breathed Stephen, and leaned forward, hand sliding towards the inside of Jon's thigh—until Jon shook him off entirely and stood up. "Jon? What are you—"  
  
"I'm _backing off,_ " spat Jon, the phrase soaked in all the pent-up fear and anxiety and frustration of the past few days. "I'm not going to fuck you if I can't even talk to you."  
  
Turning on his heel, he shut himself in the bathroom and spent the next five minutes splashing cold water on his face.


	8. Interfamilial House of Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to UrbanDictionary, "pancake" can be a slang term for a gay or effeminate man. Who knew?
> 
> Clips referenced: [cardboard](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/118366.html); [Formula 401 is high-volume](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/271371/april-15-2010/formula-01-liquid-genetic-material); any number of Formidable Opponents.

**August 6, 2007  
Monday**  
  
  
He went to Mommy's room first, but only Aunt Charlene was there, which meant Mommy had already gone to work. He didn't want to wake Aunt Charlene up, and anyway she probably couldn't help. She made lots of yummy weird foods, but she had never been tested with pancakes.  
  
Pancakes were a sacred duty. You couldn't trust them to just anyone.  
  
So he went to Daddy's room. Usually that was the same as Mommy's room, but things were different when they went to Uncle Stephen and Aunt Charlene's house. Mommy and Daddy had sat him down and explained it to him, how the difference was a special secret just for them, and how it didn't mean Mommy and Daddy didn't still love each other.  
  
To him, this seemed obvious. Of course Mommy and Daddy loved each other. That was the way the world worked. Yes, they were doing a new thing now, but he was only three years old (he could count it: one, two, three). New things happened for him every day.  
  
Daddy was still in bed, and Uncle Stephen was there too, hugging Daddy the way he sometimes hugged his dump truck when he fell asleep with it. He didn't want to wake up Uncle Stephen either, especially because Uncle Stephen could be a little scary sometimes, so he walked purposefully over to Daddy's side of the bed and poked Daddy's arm.  
  
"Daddy! Wake up!"  
  
"Hmgrlf?" asked Daddy. Silly Daddy. 'Hmgrlf' wasn't a word.  
  
"Wake up!" he repeated. "I want breakfast!"  
  
Daddy tried to roll over, but was held in place by Uncle Stephen's arm, so only Daddy's head turned to look at him. "Aren't you going to say good morning?"  
  
"Good morning. I want breakfast!"  
  
"So I gathered. Go ask your mother."  
  
"Mommy's at work," he said impatiently. Grown-ups were forever needing things explained to them.  
  
"Oh," said Daddy. "I guess I'd better get up, then. What would you like to eat?"  
  
Now this was more like it.  
  
"Pancakes!" he announced, and waited for Daddy to move Uncle Stephen's arm so they could go downstairs.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
There was a post-it note with Tracey's handwriting on the flour: "Enjoy your day off!" Jon wondered briefly if his wife was psychic.  
  
"Pancakes pancakes pancakes!" chanted Nate, banging his fork on the table.  
  
Okay, maybe it wasn't hard to foresee something like that. "Calm down, slugger. They're on the way."  
  
He was kneeling to get out the eggs when the kitchen door opened. Looking up, he nearly fell over, catching a flash of red lace before Charlene frantically pulled her robe closed.  
  
"Oh, geez," stammered Jon, his own face turning a similar shade as he realized he hadn't bothered to put on anything over his boxers. "Um. Hi. I should probably go get dressed. Any chance you could keep an eye on breakfast while I'm gone?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, sure," replied Charlene, looking anywhere but at him. "That's a good idea."  
  
It was like being twentysomething with housemates all over again. Except that his shirtless body was no longer a sight he could imagine flaunting, and the fact that she was basically the 'girlfriend's hot sister' was not the turn-on his younger self would have anticipated. (How had Jon _ever_ thought that would be anything but monumentally awkward? God, he had been even stupider in his twenties than he realized.)  
  
He managed to slip out the door without getting within three feet of Charlene, and could have sworn they let out identical sighs of relief once he was through.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen couldn't feel his legs.  
  
He must have rolled over to hug Jon in the night, because he had woken up to find Jon shaking off his arm. After pretending to be asleep long enough for Jon and the kid to leave the room, he had tried to get out of bed himself, and—nothing. Dead weight from the waist down.  
  
Summoning all his courage, he peeled away the sheets and peeked underneath.  
  
The sight was anticlimactic. Both legs were present and accounted for: not obviously damaged, not even turning funny colors. They just _felt_ numb. Like the circulation had been cut off...like something big had been lying on them...like...like—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He was scratching Shasta's head as she lay beside him, tail thumping aimlessly against the mattress.  
  
"We're making pancakes," added Jon, zipping up his fly. "Come down whenever you're ready. You too, Shamsky."  
  
Shamsky. Not Shasta. How had Stephen mixed them up?  
  
"Ow!" he hissed suddenly.  
  
In the door, Jon stopped. "Are you okay?"  
  
" _Fine,_ " snapped Stephen, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt, praying that Jon would take the hint and go away without asking questions that he would just as soon not think about. "Pins and needles, that's all."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
While Jon had dressed, and taken the time to wash up and talk to Stephen along the way, the kitchen had turned into a battleground.  
  
"Daddy!" wailed Nate the instant he walked in. "Aunt Cholly's ruinin' pancakes!"  
  
"It's a perfectly respectable Pannenkoken," protested Charlene, holding up a plate with a large pancake folded around a lumpy center. "With sliced apples and just a touch of ginger."  
  


  
"Ginger?" echoed Jon.  
  
"It's a traditional filling in the Netherlands," said Charlene, fixing him with a stern look that was almost more Stephen-ish than Stephen's own. ( _This is how it's done, Jon. Just shut up and eat._ )  
  
"She's ruinin' pancakes!" cried Nate again.  
  
"We do appreciate the international cuisine," said Jon, as placatingly as he could, "but I think Nate would prefer something a little more...familiar. How are you with latkes?"  
  
Reluctantly, Charlene put the apple-ginger-pancake hybrid down. "I've never made them," she admitted in a rush. "But if you can walk me through it once, I'll pick it up."  
  
"All right." Jon clapped his hands, rubbing them together as he assembled the recipe in his mind. "We'll need a couple of potatoes, obviously...colander, mixing bowl, a couple more eggs, you've already got the flour...hang on a second. Have you been trying to out-food us?"  
  
Charlene, unsurprisingly, looked at him like he had sprouted antlers. "Have I what now?"  
  
"Well, uh...." Trailing off, he glanced over at Nate. "Hey, kiddo, can you look for a big bowl?"  
  
While his son was crashing happily around in the cupboards, Jon shuffled up to Charlene and continued in an undertone. "So, listen, there's this thing I do—kind of traditional for my people—where if I'm in a new group and not sure how they're going to react, I entertain. Give them enough good laughs, and maybe they'll decide I'm worth keeping around, yes? And, well, I'm not sure how to put this, but—"  
  
"Yes," interrupted Charlene, leaning against the counter. "When I'm insecure, I overcompensate by cooking gourmet pancakes for three-year-olds."  
  
"Oh!" stammered Jon. "And, uh, you're okay with that?"  
  
"It's a little compulsive, I know." All the Colbert stiffness was gone from her bearing now, mouth curved into a sheepish smile. "But it makes me feel better, and it's not like I don't enjoy it. And, hey, at least it's productive. Nothing you need to worry yourself about."  
  
Jon smiled back. "Fair enough. But you will put your feet up and make us order out one of these days, right?"  
  
"Tell you what. You show me how to make latkes now, and tonight I won't cook a thing. I won't even complain if you order the cheapest, greasiest, most cardboard-y fast food you can find."  
  
Nate, who had finally retrieved a nice large bowl without dismantling more than half the contents of the cupboard, perked up at this. "Domino's!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When Stephen finally came downstairs, he found his cousin flipping latkes like a pro and Jon trying to convince Maggie to try a sporkful of something lumpy.  
  
"Morning, Stephen!" said Charlene sunnily. "Ask Jon if you can try some of his Pannenkoken."  
  
"Char _lene!_ " yelped Stephen, trying to cover George's ears without dropping the baby in the process. "Not in front of the _kids!_ "  
  
Jon giggled. "It means pancakes, Stephen. Dutch pancakes. With ginger. And here's the crazy thing: they're not half bad."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
After Tracey returned from work that afternoon, the Stewarts elected to take a family walk, and Stephen sent George along. Charlene had gone out, to interrogate local restaurant owners or something like that, and he needed the baby safely out of the way for a while.  
  
Even knowing it was the right thing to do, he stalled as long as possible, checking and double-checking the buckles in the stroller, making sure George's sun hat was firmly on, trying to come to some definite conclusion about which toy ought to go along. (George stared marginally longer at the floppy cow than the green cat, so floppy cow it was.)  
  
Once the house was empty, he found a few more vitally important things to do. Skim the news. Check his alerts (he wasn't _looking_ for information on "freaky sudden leg-numbing syndrome", but if Google just happened to find some on its own, it would be only polite to read it). Read his email. Check those alerts again.  
  
At last he settled in a comfortable chair in the den with yesterday's _New York Times_ , began casually tearing it to pieces (they were planning to fire up the grill for dinner), and, once the noise of shredded print had soothed his nerves a bit, closed his eyes and imagined himself somewhere else. Somewhere reassuring.  
  
Familiar columns and stars rose up around him in his mind's eye.  
  
"This," he said, "is Formidable Opponent."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tracey could tell that her husband had something on his mind. No prizes for guessing who was at the base of it.  
  
They walked side by side along the idyllic suburban street. Nate resolutely pedaled his tricycle, Maggie squealed at everything that passed (a flock of birds, a red convertible, a woman with a Great Dane on the other side of the street), George gummed his toy cow, and the dogs sniffed everything within reach. It was the kind of tableau Jon savored, and Tracey was loath to break in on his quiet delight.  
  
So she kept the conversation in shallow waters, and Jon seemed content to stay there, until she said, "Ready to go home tomorrow?"  
  
He nearly tripped. "Oh, god. _Home._ "  
  
Tracey raised her eyebrows. "What was that? 'Yes, darling, this visit was wonderful, but I've missed retiring to our bed and falling asleep in your arms'?"  
  
Jon had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, babe. I'm worried about Stephen, that's all."  
  
Which was precisely what Tracey had been afraid of. Jon had so little ability to set limits when it came to Stephen; if she didn't take a firm stand, she could see the man devouring her husband whole. (And not in the sense that he had presumably been doing for the past few nights, either.)  
  
"He's survived the past four decades without you hovering over him," she said gently. "He can manage without you during the week."  
  
"I don't _hover_ ," protested Jon. "Do I hover?"  
  
"Like a helicopter, dear."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_"I can't let him do it," said Stephen. "I can't. End of story."  
  
"A strong opening argument," replied the figure across from him, "and yet, I still want it."  
  
"That's no excuse," snapped Stephen. "I have plenty of experience denying myself things I want. What were all those years of marriage for?"  
  
"I didn't do so well then either, did I? How many times did I go to a different city for a field piece and end up with some stranger in a bar? A lot, that's how many." Not-Stephen smirked impishly at him. "Some of them even sucked me off."  
  
"Stop it!" ordered Stephen. "You can't compare my Jon to those filthy—"  
  
"Sure I can. He said he wanted it, didn't he? Stop being such a moralistic prick and let the man go down on me, already."  
  
"He doesn't know! He's one of those permissive liberal rainbow-hugging idealists. He's completely innocent! Which is why I have to protect him!"  
  
"Nobody's **innocent** ," snarled not-Stephen with sudden disgust. "Nobody's as wonderful as you think they are."  
  
"Jon is! That's why I love him!"  
  
"You couldn't care less about Stewart! You're too busy being in love with your own glorified self-image, which depends on pretending I'm not here! Well, tough. I'm here, I have needs, and your little Formula 401 business isn't going to fill them all."_  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
As far as Jon could tell, Stephen was full of energy all evening: shouting at the television, doing his share of the dishes, playing peek-a-boo with the babies, even chasing Nate around the house for a while until Jon had to issue a parental decree that it was time to settle down.  
  
After the kids had been corralled into bed, Charlene got out the packet of photos that had come in the mail, and all four of them ended up absorbed in the stories they brought to her mind. And these were only the trips on which the film had _not_ been lost, waterlogged, frozen, burned, or eaten by a bear—all of which, she said (while Stephen listened, wide-eyed), had happened at least once.  
  
Tracey suggested at some point that they should get a few nice photo albums and make real records out of these—notes and all. While she and Charlene were discussing this, Jon realized that Stephen had gone upstairs.  
  
"It sounds like a great idea," he interjected when the conversation hit a lull, "and I'd love to hear more stories later, but I'm gonna turn in."  
  
"Good night, Jon," said Tracey, without looking up from the photos. Charlene echoed it.  
  
Of course, by this point Stephen had probably already crashed. Sure enough, by the time Jon made it up the stairs, the lights in the bedroom were out. He slipped in as quietly as possible, already weighing whether they could talk in the morning, or whether it would be better to invite him over for lunch....  
  
"Jon."  
  
Jon's heart skipped a beat as he was pressed against the wall, by a Stephen who was draped in a loose sheet and clearly nothing else.  
  
"Jon, please," he breathed, body undulating like some underwater plant rippling in the current. "Don't you want me?"  
  
"It's not that I don't want you," insisted Jon—somewhat redundantly, given that he was practically straddling the other man's thigh. "It's just—it's just—"  
  
"It was a fluke. You really want to go down on me? Have at it. I won't freak out this time. Let me show you."  
  
"I—"  
  
Letting out a low growl that went straight to Jon's groin, Stephen tugged him backwards towards the bed.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
There was no way someone could turn an offer like that down, but he was still relieved when Jon didn't.  
  
He let the sheet fall from his shoulders as he tumbled onto the mattress, legs spread, Jon climbing obediently on top of him and kissing comforting trails down his neck.  
  
Too comforting. Too obedient. Too much at his mercy—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The title was something like _Pledge Week XI_ ; there was a mock-up of a frat house on one side of him, a row of cameras on the other; half a dozen actors in letterman jackets stood in between.  
  
"Two of you?" asked Tyrone Hunnibi. "At once?"  
  
His hesitation drew a smirk from another man, twenty-nine and playing twenty-one, with chiseled features and pants that left nothing to the imagination. "If you can pull off three, you're in automatically."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Tyrone dropped to his bare knees on the rug—  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen slammed his legs together so quickly that his knees nearly closed on Jon's chin.  
  
Jon pulled away, too stunned to be hurt.  
  
His eyes had finally adjusted to the dark: he could see that Stephen's were tightly shut.  
  


  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He relished the feeling, savored it, ached for one of the men around him to hurry up and push inside him, already—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He hated the feeling, shunned it, tried to build a wall to block it out, curled up in a corner of his own mind and screamed when it didn't help—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_"No," moaned the little boy, trying not to choke, "no, no, no, no, no..."  
  
"What the hell are you doing out?" demanded Tyrone. "I can't enjoy this with you out here whining. Go away!"  
  
"I can't!" wailed the boy. "Please, I can't, just make it stop—"_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Stephen?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_"Jon? Jon!"  
  
"Shut up, you little idiot!" ordered Stephen, grabbing him and Tyrone and the chaos and choking it all off with both hands. "You can't bring Jon into this! Let him go!"  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but please, I need him—"  
  
"Well, I love him," snapped Stephen, "and I'm not going to let you drag him into this just because you're too weak to cope! Let. Him. Go!"_  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Fine," said Jon quietly. "If it's that bad for you, I'll just—I'll just go."  
  
He slid off of the bed. There was no objection. Even his dick had finally adopted an attitude of respectful quiescence.  
  
"Unless..." he added, leaving it open-ended, hoping, hoping....  
  
"Go," whispered Stephen.  
  
Jon went.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen spasmed on the bed a few times, gagging, present but transluscent, as if he might wink out again at any second.  
  
Someone in the back of his mind was sobbing.  
  
And someone else, shaken in defeat, admitted, _"You're a Formidable Opponent."_


	9. Things Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of this chapter is from W. B. Yeats' "[The Second Coming](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Second_Coming_%28poem%29)". Bobby refers to the events of [The Robert Report](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/69299.html).
> 
> Clips referenced: any number of Tek Jansens; [Stephen's driver's uniform](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/77962/november-07-2006/midterm-midtacular---democrat-majority); [eagles](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182829/april-12-2007/a-girl-for-stephen-jr-), [museums](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/78865/november-29-2006/alabama-miracle---the-stephen-colbert-museum---gift-shop--grand-opening), [antiques](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/62373/april-24-2006/duke-obilia-auction); [the ghost](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/181165/november-09-2005/mary-roach).

At first he headed for the guest room, but he thought better of it and ended up in the nursery, where he turned off the baby monitor. If nothing else, Stephen would get a full eight hours tonight.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 7, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
Around half past two George started to whimper.  
  
This, at least, Jon could deal with.  
  
_Thank goodness you're easy to handle,_ he thought, as the baby sucked contentedly on a warm bottle of formula. _There are only ever about three things you need. I can't get it wrong more than twice. In maybe five minutes, tops, you're happy again._  
  


  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
At a quarter to three he tiptoed downstairs, retrieved his laptop, tiptoed back up, and flipped it open.  
  
The computer had been trained to find the house's wireless network, but for some reason it didn't connect on its own. He typed in the network key—"100sofgirlfriends"—and waited.  
  
_You have successfully connected to tekjansen,_ the screen announced.  
  
For the first time, it didn't make him smile.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
It was almost five o'clock when the tears started. He closed the computer when his vision grew too blurry for him to see the screen.  
  
Ten minutes later he wiped his eyes, opened the laptop again, and finished his game of Solitaire.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Her alarm clock went off at 7:15, and again at 7:24, and then it was half past seven and Charlene was shaking her awake.  
  
"Come on, Trace, you've got work. The poor sick animals are calling."  
  
"Mrph," protested Tracey.  
  
"Hop in the shower for five minutes and I'll have breakfast ready when you get out."  
  
Now _that_ was motivation. "I'm up, I'm up!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When she got downstairs, hair still damp from being too hastily blow-dried, Charlene was standing nervously just outside the kitchen door.  
  
"I think," she said, "you should maybe go in first."  
  
Tracey went in.  
  
Heaped on the counter was the largest pile of chopped fruit she had ever seen in her life. Slices of apples, bananas, peaches, and pears mingled with chunks of canteloupe, honeydew, and watermelon in a multicolored mountain, little rivulets of juice trickling out from the base into sticky puddles, several of which were dripping onto the floor. Beside this stood Jon, hacking up another canteloupe with sharp chops from a knife that was about twice as long as it needed to be for the job.  
  
"Jon?"  
  
"'Morning, babe," said her husband without looking back. "Have some fruit."  
  
"Jon, stop for a second."  
  
He stopped, turned. "What is—" Then his eyes passed over the mountain. "Oh. Uh. Oh."  
  
"Put down the knife, honey," said Tracey gently.  
  
"It's okay," protested Jon, but he set the knife carefully on the counter and backed away. "I'm cool. I just had a little energy to burn."  
  
"Come here." He came halfway towards her. "You didn't sleep."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Where's the energy coming from, then?"  
  
He glanced at the coffee pot, brown-streaked but empty.  
  
"You drank an entire pot of coffee," said Tracey.  
  
"Uh. Maybe?"  
  
"Jon, what's wrong?"  
  
"It's okay. I just got a little carried away. That's all. It's okay."  
  
"No. It's not. Now come _here_." She started to walk backwards, leading him towards the door. As she passed Charlene, she said quietly, "Hon, could you box up most of that fruit and stick it in the fridge? And make something to go with it for today. Something simple."  
  
Charlene nodded and slipped into the kitchen as they stepped out, leaving Jon and Tracey alone in the hall.  
  
She waited until he was looking her in the eye before saying, "Tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Nothing. Something. I don't know. I—"  
  
"What did he do?"  
  
"Nothing—it wasn't him, it was me—something set him off—I don't—Tracey, please, I've been thinking about this all night and I don't understand it, I don't have any answers, and I need to _not think about it_ for a while. Please."  
  
At any other time she would trust him, fully and implicitly, with everything and anything; but his judgment was so clearly on the fritz right now that she hesitated.  
  
Then she said, "Go back in there, sit down, and eat whatever Charlene's making."  
  
"Aren't you coming?"  
  
"I'll be back in a minute. I need to go find the papers." She gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "We're behind on crosswords."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The first thing he did when he woke up was call his driver. When Sam protested that technically he wasn't on the clock for a few more hours, Stephen fired him. When Sam pointed out that his stars-and-stripes uniform was custom-fitted and it would cost a lot to have a whole new one made, Stephen re-hired him and offered him a bonus. When Sam said that he would be there in fifteen minutes, Stephen hung up.  
  
He pulled on the nearest pair of pajamas, shaved, combed his hair, and went quietly to the stairs. Maybe he could just grab something to eat and be out of there in sixty seconds. No staying. Certainly no talking.  
  
He pushed open the door, and stopped short.  
  
Jon and his wife were sitting at the table, bent over a crossword puzzle, so intent on whatever clue they were working on that they had frozen in the middle of eating. Tracey had a fork with a chunk of watermelon suspended halfway to her mouth, dripping unnoticed on the corner of the paper.  
  
And Jon had a whole sausage hanging out of his mouth.  
  
Tracey glanced up and saw Stephen in the doorway. Jon, oblivious, pursed his lips.  
  
Heart pounding, Stephen bolted.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He ran for his room, threw himself into the bathroom, and slammed the door, trying to shut out the images that threatened to crash over him like a tidal wave, but then he looked up and it wasn't the same room—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—and then he was in a different bathroom, grungy, dilapidated, framed on three sides by the chipped blue walls of a public stall.  
  
It shouldn't have been real—he hadn't done this for years—but it looked real and it sounded real and it _felt_ real: the slight itch of the cheap suit, the graffiti on the tile in front of his face, the cold of the porcelain as he leaned against it, the sound of the man behind him spitting into his hand—  
  
—and in the grip of the memory he was fighting the urge to whimper, with need or with shame or maybe both—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—and then he was the one standing—  
  
—with the other man bent over, and Stephen thrusting into him—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—and it was _Jon_ —  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—Jon's hands and knees braced against rusty porcelain, Jon's face shoved against the dirty wall, Jon's voice whimpering—  
  
—and it was a memory, a memory, it hadn't happened this way but it was still a memory, he couldn't change it, _he couldn't stop_ —  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stephen screamed—  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
All three people in the kitchen jolted, as though they had been hooked up to the same line when an electric shock snapped through it. Tracey dropped her fork. Jon dropped his sausage.  
  
It was Jon who started running first, with Tracey at his heels.  
  
Charlene followed them as far as the top of the stairs, then turned and made a beeline for the nursery.  
  
George wasn't crying—not yet—but his face was scrunched up with unbounded baby discontent. He started to whimper when he spotted Charlene, and kept it up as she scooped him gently into her arms.  
  
"Shhh, sweetheart," she chanted, ignoring the commotion from across the hall (Jon, frightened, pleading; Tracey, frightened, angry). "It's all right. Your daddy's going through a hard time, that's all. But Jon's going to help him, and Tracey too. Everything's going to be fine."  
  
She almost didn't register the hum of a car pulling up outside.  
  
Then there was a clatter, slamming doors, pounding feet, the nursery door thrown open.  
  
Stephen's hair was a bird's nest, his face haggard, a set of faded pajamas hanging loosely over his frame; but his eyes burned like live coals.  
  
"Take care of the baby," he hissed, in a voice unlike any Charlene had ever heard from him. "You, whatever you do, take care of the baby."  
  
And then he was gone, taking the stairs two at a time.  
  
Charlene half-sat, half-dropped to the carpet. She was still sitting in the middle of the floor a few minutes later, when Tracey found her, transferred the soothed George into Jon's care, and folded her into a long embrace.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"One word," hissed the man in the back seat, "and not only will you be fired, but they will never find your body."  
  
"Yessir."  
  
It wasn't the first death threat Sam had gotten from his boss. You learned to take these things in stride.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  


  
—and the next thing he knew, he was in the car.  
  
The familiar setting, the show logo printed on the seat in front of him, even the waiting bottled water in his favorite brand served as instant anchors. The shame and the terror and the helplessness were still there, but hazy, muffled, like they were under a thick curtain, or like some guardian angel had draped her wings safely over them.  
  
He could even feel something flutter in the shadows at the back of his mind.  
  
_He hurts you._  
  
"It isn't him," whispered Stephen, staring at the logo in front of him, eyes tracing the sharp contours of his own name. "It isn't Jon's fault."  
  
_He hurts you, he hurts you, he makes you afraid when he's around and you need to keep him away. Stop falling apart. Put up your shields._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"What do you mean, you can't let me in?"  
  
Stewart stood in the waiting room of the _Report_ studio, looking about ready to punch someone.  
  
Tad wished desperately that he had Killer behind him. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, trying to sound more calm than he felt, "but Stephen's having a difficult day, and—"  
  
"I know you guys are used to handling Stephen, but there's more going on here!"  
  
" _Please,_ Mr. Stewart!" exclaimed Tad, feeling his pitch jump an octave as his nerves frayed. He was used to failing to bring in things that Stephen wanted, from eagles to museums to French antiques to Stewart himself, but he had no idea what would happen if he failed to keep something out. "We have the situation under control—"  
  
There was a loud crash from one of the floors above. Both men flinched.  
  
Before Stewart could protest, though, the door to the set swung open, and an unusually harassed Bobby exclaimed, "Tad! There you are. I need—" He caught sight of Stewart. "Okay, what did you do to him?"  
  
"Bobby!" exclaimed Tad, aghast.  
  
Whatever he was going to say next was bowled over by Stewart's shout. "I don't _know!_ Maybe I could figure it out if everyone would just let me _talk to him!_ "  
  
Tad cringed.  
  
"I've got this," said Bobby, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Tad, I need you to go talk to Meg. Stephen just sent her off crying. I think she's in the second floor supply closet."  
  
Tad hoped he didn't look as relieved as he felt. "On my way."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When the door had closed behind Tad, Stewart shifted his glare to Bobby, though he seemed to be making an effort to rein in his agitation. "Listen, I know you guys have your marching orders, but it doesn't sound like Stephen's in any shape to be working right now."  
  
Bobby decided not to mention that that had never stopped them before. "Maybe not," he stammered. "But there's nothing you can do for him."  
  
From the look on Stewart's face, he had been afraid of something like this. "Don't say that! He's going to be okay!"  
  
"That's not what I mean. Of course he'll get through this. I think. What I mean is that _you_ can't help him." Normally Bobby wasn't this straightforward, but he could feel his Stephen-sense tingling, telling him he was on the right track. "Do you mind if we sit down?"  
  
"If anyone should be able to...." protested Stewart, but he let himself be herded into one of the white plastic chairs.  
  
Taking his own seat under the giant Colbert Nation flag, Bobby said, "Did anyone ever tell you that you used to haunt this place?"  
  
Still twitching, Stewart frowned. "You mean back when the show was here?"  
  
"No, a while after the _Report_ started. Well, it wasn't you, exactly, since you're obviously still alive. But we had a ghost in the studio for a couple of weeks, and it sure looked like you." He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his face. "I called you for advice about it, actually. You might not remember. I'm pretty sure you thought I was being metaphorical."  
  


  
"A ghost," repeated Stewart in disbelief.  
  
"And who knows?" continued Bobby, as a thought struck him. "Maybe it _was_ a metaphor. Maybe Stephen...created it somehow, goodness knows it wouldn't be the weirdest thing he's done, as a projection of his own sublimated insecurities...."  
  
"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I believe you," interrupted Stewart. "What are you getting at?"  
  
Well, Bobby knew when he was babbling, but he wasn't sure he could cut this one down. "Everything," he said helplessly. "Look, your show, it's—I think it was Mr. Karlin who said this—it's Jon Stewart and the Stewartettes, right? All the correspondents are in your shadow. And Stephen had been in Kilborn's shadow for two years already when you showed up and rocketed right past him. And then he spent, what, six, seven years there? And when he finally does get his own project, with his name at the top of the set—and on the sides, and in the lights on the floor, and on the stationary, he's even tried to have it tattooed on the whole staff—but the whole thing is a spinoff of yours. The blogosphere loves to compare them, and most of the time you still come out on top. And we can tell him the blogs aren't important, but the Emmys? You know how mad he was at Manilow, and Manilow only beat him out once."  
  
Stewart looked more uncomfortable by the second. "I don't—it's not like I can control any of that—"  
  
"Right. You can't. And he can't either. There's nothing he can do to get out of your shadow—unless he gave up the show, but I can't imagine that happening." It still gave Bobby chills to watch the way his boss came alive on-set. Even with a hand-me-down studio, this place was irrevocably Stephen's, had been even before the ghost had been exorcised. "But he can get away from you."  
  
"You really think that's what he wants," said Stewart dully.  
  
"He wants to be _able_ to get away from you," corrected Bobby. "He wants to know the option is there. And if you're, well, spending time at his house...?" He paused; Stewart grimaced, but nodded. "Then this is the only place he can still shut you out of. Let him do it. He's never going to let you in until he feels secure that it's by his choice."  
  
"Are you sure about this?"  
  
Bobby toyed with his clipboard uncertainly. "It's just a theory. But you have to admit, it fits the facts."  
  
Stewart sighed. "Yeah, well, Stephen's never been a fan of facts."  
  
"That's because he can't stop them from being true."  
  
Upstairs, there was a sudden outburst of shouting, muffled echoes reverberating down the walls.  
  
"You should go," said Stewart gruffly, rising. "They're gonna need you in there."  
  
"It does sound like it," agreed Bobby. When Stewart looked pained, he added quickly, "Go do your show. We'll take care of Stephen while you're gone."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When he got back to the loft, Tracey was dozing in an armchair in the front room.  
  
He woke her with a kiss. "Hey, honey. You didn't have to wait up for me."  
  
"Oh, good, you're back," she murmured.  
  
A chill went up Jon's spine. "Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"How's Stephen?"  
  
Was that an answer, or a change of subject? "I haven't seen him all day."  
  
His wife opened her eyes. "You haven't?"  
  
"He shut me out of the studio, and we didn't have a toss."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
He shook his head. "Not your fault."  
  
"You can't stay up all night worrying about it again. Come to bed."  
  
"I don't think I can get to sleep."  
  
"Try."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When he got back to the house, Charlene was pulling a rack of peach tarts out of the oven, while George snored faintly in his high chair, face and hands smeared with mashed pear.  
  
"I called the studio," she said, not looking up. "Twice."  
  
"They told you I was okay, right?" muttered Stephen halfheartedly.  
  
"Your secretary told me you were _there_. That's all I could get out of her."  
  
Though he was still in one of his show suits, Stephen carefully lifted George out of the chair, settling down at the dining room table and cradling the messy baby in his arms.  
  
"Can I get a washcloth?" he whispered.  
  
Charlene pulled off her oven mitts, dunked a rag under the faucet, and passed it to him.  
  
"Do you still owe me for anything?" he murmured, unpinning George's bib. "Please say there's something." _Say I'm not a horrible person, say I've done something that can count as penance, say you'll accept my apology...._  
  
After a moment's hesitation, Charlene slid into the seat across from him. "Sixth grade," she said softly. "I decided I wanted a nickname. 'Charlie'. You were the only one who ever used it."  
  
Stephen didn't remember, and when he tried to concentrate it only hurt, like there were bumblebees buzzing around inside his head.  
  
He dabbed the streaks of food from his son's face with such extraordinary tenderness that the baby didn't even stir, and tried, for what he knew would be the last time, to cling to the illusion that he had everything together.


	10. Some Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [gun puns](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-august-8-2007/going--going--gun); [Buck Henry](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-august-8-2007/the-henry-stops-here). There's also backstory drawn from _I Am America_.

**August 8, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
"Here's your lunch, Mr. Stewart. Anything else I can get you?"  
  
"Thanks, Kris," said Jon, nodding the new intern out the door. "I'm all set."  
  
As if in deference to his ever-increasing agitation, Jon's morning had been mercifully low-key. He had managed to scrape together several hours of sleep, and even top it off with a balanced breakfast. The new correspondent had lots of experience, so he didn't need his hand held in preparing his first segment, and the guest was a Presidential candidate, so the questions wrote themselves.  
  
He was eating his soup-in-a-cup alone, but that wasn't unusual. And one of the televisions in front of him was reporting that the government had lost 200,000 guns in Iraq, but by now he was so used to profound incompetence that it was almost comforting.  
  
There was a knock on his door, and Kris poked her head in again, brown curls bouncing around her face. "Mr. Stewart? Mail."  
  
At this time of day? "Well, bring it in."  
  
"It's, um, the plain-brown-wrapper kind."  
  
Jon sighed. "Kris, if you're gonna work at this show, you need to get used to the fact that we watch a lot of porn."  
  
She still carried the tape gingerly with three fingers, as though expecting it to burst into flames. Jon left it on the side of his desk while he finished his soup, watching the screens and mulling over possible bylines for the weapons-gone-missing-en-masse story. (Here Today, Gun Tomorrow; Going, Going, Gun; Gun with the Wind...the hardest part was going to be narrowing it down.)  
  
At last he turned his attention to the package. Hand-delivered: there was no address, no writing at all except for "TO JON" in blocky print. He stripped off the brown paper to find a VHS tape, its cover boasting several chiseled shirtless men and not an inch of cleavage in sight.  
  
Nothing too kinky, which suggested that it wasn't Jason's handiwork. But the retro typography and faded printing looked at least two decades old, and he had never taken Rob for a history enthusiast.  
  
There was a Post-it on the bottom with a scrawl in red pen: "Watch this."  
  
After turning it over a couple of times, he couldn't find any obvious sign of a joke. Probably there was a golf tournament taped over half of it, cutting in at just the point when you were starting to get into it. Well. It couldn't hurt to look, but later; he had to get back to work.  
  
He pulled off the Post-it, tossed it in the recycling, and set the tape aside.  
  
Ten seconds later, he grabbed it and stared.  
  
Looking coquettishly at him from the cover where the Post-it had been, twenty years younger and with hair to match but otherwise unmistakable, was Stephen.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Let me in. I need to talk to him."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stewart, you can't."  
  
"He's still locking me out? Because he sent me a message, and—"  
  
"No, no, you don't understand. I can let you in, but he's not here."  
  
Jon cursed under his breath. "Call me when he gets back. Can you do that?"  
  
"Sure thing."  
  
Too on-edge to thank him properly, Jon gave Bobby a curt nod and turned to go.  
  
"Hang on!"  
  
"What? What?"  
  
"Take an umbrella. It's pouring out there."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Buck had been in the news business for many, many years. It was what gave him the historical perspective to be, well, a Senior Historical Perspectivist. He had been in the field; he had been behind the desk; he had been in newspapers, on radio, and on television. Not only did he know how to do the job, but he knew the business inside and out.  
  
And he had never been in a rehearsal where the anchor was so thoroughly distracted.  
  
"Sorry, guys," said Stewart, after Mandvi asked him for the third time if he was really paying attention to the report. "I'm waiting for a call."  
  
"Is this a Stephen thing?" asked Mandvi suspiciously.  
  
"Yep. It's a Stephen thing."  
  
There were knowing nods all around the set, as though it happened at this organization all the time. Confused, Buck leaned over and addressed the young Brit next to him. "What is—"  
  
Jon jumped about three feet as a few chords of "It's Raining Men" rang out from his back pocket. "'Scuse me," he said hastily, and switched off his mic to answer it.  
  
"Colbert's getting some plane named after him today," explained Oliver. "Probably needs Stewart waiting when he gets back to congratulate him, or something."  
  
Sure enough, a moment later Jon snapped the phone closed and stood up. "Gotta go. Carry on."  
  
Once he was gone, Buck turned to Oliver again. "You don't suppose they're sleeping together?"  
  
"No!" yelped Oliver.  
  
He wasn't the only one. The entire room had jumped at the suggestion; a few were giving Buck indulgent smiles, but some looked almost as panicked as the Brit.  
  
Buck frowned. "What did I say?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
For the third time in two days, Jon found himself towering over Bobby at the studio door. Bobby was one of the few people in either crew that he could legitimately tower over, so he made the most of it.  
  
"Yes, he's back. But he said not to let you in until you've answered a question."  
  
"Well, what's the question?"  
  
"The question," said the stage manager, looking remarkably unruffled (probably because he had Killer standing right behind him), "is, 'Are you mad?'"  
  
"No," growled Jon.  
  
"I can't tell him that. It's not true."  
  
"Then tell him—" Jon stopped, gave himself a few moments to actually think about it. "Tell him I'm mad," he said at last, "but not at him. You understand? _Not_ at him."  
  
"Got it," said Bobby, and edged around Killer to get through the door.  
  
Jon tapped his foot a few times, then looked up at the roadie, who was larger than himself and Bobby put together. "Don't you have to go blow something up, or something?"  
  
"Actually," said Killer, "I've been teaching myself embroidery."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen was cowering on the couch when Jon finally appeared.  
  
He looked up as his visitor came in, but it was with shoulders hunched, legs pulled together, fists clenched on his knees; he could feel the streaks of dried tears on his face. Jon shut the door, taking the extra moment to make sure it was locked.  
  


  
Then he said, "Tyrone?"  
  
Hearing the name, something in Stephen snapped. He ducked his head as the room blurred around him, gasping for air, afraid he might blank out at any second—  
  
"Stephen!" Jon sprinted to the couch and dropped to his knees. "Stephen—oh, God, Stephen. Come back to me, Stephen."  
  
Stephen grabbed his hands, wringing them frantically: warm and solid, broad and long-fingered, soft and brushed with fur. Real.  
  
"Hi," he whispered.  
  
"Stephen?"  
  
He nodded. "You watched it."  
  
"First five minutes. Couldn't finish."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Oh, Stephen, there's no reason for you to be sorry."  
  
He shook his head; he could think of plenty. "I'm sorry," he repeated, _for dragging you into this,_ "I'm sorry," _for shouting at you,_ "I'm sorry," _for confusing you,_ "I'm sorry," _for hurting you,_ "I'm sorry," _for not being strong enough to protect you,_ "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."  
  
He closed his eyes, bent over, tried to fold in on himself; he felt Jon climb onto the couch beside him, felt arms wrap around him, apologized for needing it; he started to cry again, and apologized for that too.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon held Stephen, and held him, and held him more, until both the sobs and the litany of apologies had subsided.  
  
Then Stephen choked out, "You understand now, Jon? I had—had to protect you."  
  
Gay porn. In the eighties. Fuck.  
  
"Shh, Stephen, shh," soothed Jon, even as a dozen spectres rose threateningly in the back of his mind. "It's okay. We can have safe sex, we can...are you even sure you're positive? Have you been tested, or...?"  
  
Head still pressed against Jon's chest, Stephen shook it rapidly. "I—I'm HIV negative, Jon."  
  
Oh, thank god.  
  
"Couldn't've had George if—they tested for everything and the kitchen sink—I—" His voice caught again. "I wouldn't be b-blubbering all over you like th-this if it c-could give you...."  
  
"Tears don't transmit AIDS anyway, Stephen. It's okay. It's okay."  
  
Stephen gulped thickly. "B-Bill Frist s-said...."  
  
"Bill Frist is an idiot. It's never happened, Stephen."  
  
Stephen had dissolved into incoherent sobs again, but he nodded a little.  
  
Jon held him tighter.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
As Stephen began to recover some of his composure, he realized that Jon was still talking. "Shh. It's okay. It's over. It was years ago. All that, it's gone now."  
  
Stephen could have laughed. "It isn't gone, Jon. It'll never be gone."  
  
"Sure it will." Jon tried to cup his chin, tipping his head upwards; when he resisted, though, Jon didn't force it. "You had a bad experience. What that must have felt like—I can't imagine. But you got through it. You're here now."  
  
"It isn't just one experience! Or two, or three, or...." How many had he been in? He didn't even know. Whole months of that time were just—missing. "It isn't just the porn!"  
  
"Then what—?"  
  
"It's _everything_ ," said Stephen desperately. "Everything that gay _is_. It's the stains and the disease and the meth addictions, and it's one-night stands in back-alley bars, and it's fast nameless sex in grungy airport bathrooms, and it's steamy scenes in the men's room at the Applebee's while your wife and kids are eating chicken outside. It's selfish hedonism, it's shame and sin, it's lying and cheating and adultery and divorce, it's not an infection but it's a _sickness_ , it still hurts, it still kills!"  
  
He gulped hard; and Jon, Jon was blessedly silent, giving him the time he needed to pull himself together again.  
  
"It b-broke me," he continued at last, throat suddenly hoarse, as if making a last-ditch effort to keep him from admitting it. "And I can d-deal with it, mostly, can keep the pieces separate, can go on living without those memories and be okay—but you can't do that, Jon! And you shouldn't _need_ to. You should never have to learn to do this! That's why I can't let you have gay experiences. No matter how much you think you might want them. I can't let you fall apart like this, can't—"  
  
A kind of convulsion shook him, and before he knew it he was clinging to Jon for stability. _I'm a failure. Here I am, talking about how I need to protect you, and I can't even sit still without your help._  
  
He screwed his eyes shut as the tears started to well up again. _I'm pathetic. I'm pathetic...._  
  
And Jon, dear Jon, though Stephen could imagine no reason for it, pulled him closer.  
  


  
"Stephen," he murmured, nose pressed into Stephen's hair, one thumb rubbing in slow circles on his shoulder. "Stephen, Stephen, when you say 'without the memories', do you mean that? That you don't remember any of this stuff happening?"  
  
With a tiny sob, Stephen nodded.  
  
"Except when we're having sex," realized Jon in a whisper. "Then it comes back. And there's something about me going down on you that's triggering it."  
  
"Well, the rest wasn't gay for you, Jon," said Stephen miserably. "You were on top."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The wind picked up outside, blowing the rain in great sheets against the windows. Inside, Jon bit his lip hard to keep from laughing, because he knew if he started he wouldn't stop.  
  
Something halfway between a laugh and a sob wrenched itself out of his throat anyway, and he tried to hold Stephen more tightly but found it was no longer possible. What he really wanted to do was wrap himself around Stephen completely, form a kind of protective human shield between him and the world; but he was too small to do it with any kind of effectiveness.  
  
He couldn't be a physical defense, and Stephen's mental defenses had been stripped away, exposing something soft and raw and wounded and thoroughly snarled in misinformation, unable to escape because of the fears and faulty beliefs chaining it down, unable to do anything but push away anyone who got too close, to keep them from catching any collateral damage while it was hurt again and again and again....  
  
"Stephen," he murmured again, as though by saying it enough he could pull Stephen out into the light. "Stephen, Stephen, oh Stephen, that's not how gay works. It's just _not._ What you've been through, it's messed with your head, but it isn't always like that. It isn't even _usually_ like that. Sleeping with other men doesn't mean you have to have anything but a happy, healthy sex life. Even for the guy on the bottom."  
  
"I can't risk it, Jon!" cried Stephen. "Even if that's true, I can't risk you!"  
  
"Stephen, I've been risked!"  
  
Stephen pulled back with a jolt, just far enough that Jon finally got to meet his eyes. They were puffy and swollen half shut, but their stare was still intent. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I've been risked. There were a couple of guys in college, and...if I'd known what you were afraid of, I could have told you that a long time ago."  
  
"You did?" Stephen searched his face for a moment, then whispered, "You're sure?"  
  
"It's kinda hard to mistake for anything else," said Jon gently.  
  
Clutching fistfuls of Jon's shirt, Stephen crumpled. "So it's just me," he choked. "It's just me, I'm just weak, it's all my—"  
  
"No!" exclaimed Jon, pulling him close again. "Stephen, what's happening to you, the memory issues, the panic attacks—they're symptoms of PTSD. They can happen to anyone, gay, straight, men, women, whatever. They happen to the strongest people in the world—cops, soldiers, disaster survivors. And they are _not_ your fault."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
DJ waited half an hour before finally calling.  
  
Jon picked up on the second ring, harried and snappish. "This really isn't a good time."  
  
"You know what it's a good time for?" said DJ dryly. "Rehearsing your show."  
  
"Ah, geez, sorry DJ, but we're having kind of a crisis over here. Put John Oliver at the desk for now."  
  
"That's gonna be awkward when Rob does his report. They just broke up, like, a week ago."  
  
"Wait, they were together?"  
  
DJ sighed. Maybe Jon was just oblivious to gay in general. "Yes, Jon. Try to keep up."  
  
"Okay. Okay. Listen, awkwardness at work is one of the things you gotta deal with when dating a co-worker. It'll give them a chance to show they can be professional about this."  
  
Then there was a faint, muffled sob from his end of the line.  
  
"Right," said DJ. "Professional." He let his tone convey his raised eyebrows.  
  
"DJ, please," said Jon. "When was the last time I missed a show that it wasn't important? Like, somebody's-in-the-hospital important?"  
  
"...Never," admitted DJ.  
  
"And doesn't that give me any kind of credibility?"  
  
"Okay, point taken."  
  
"Thanks. Can I go now?"  
  
"One more thing. Is there going to be a _Report_ tonight?"  
  
"Not if I can help it."  
  
"Wait, what?"  
  
But Jon had already hung up.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
His thoughts were still whirling when Jon took the call, and any coherent reaction he might have mustered was blown away halfway through. "What do you mean, 'in the hospital'?" he burst out, before the other man had even put down the phone.  
  
"You don't have to," said Jon quickly. "But, Stephen, you can't do this alone—"  
  
"I'm not alone! You're here!"  
  
"And if I could, I would stay with you all day," insisted Jon. "But I need to get back to my show. And you're in no shape to do yours."  
  
The bottom dropped out of Stephen's world. Even when his own mind was in chaos, he still had guiding stars outside of himself that he could use to keep his world on course, but the sky had suddenly gone dark and panic was rising on all sides. _You can't leave me you can't take my show you can't cut me off from my Nation you can't let Dr. Moreau know about this she'll think I'm crazy and she'll take my son you can't let her you can't you can't you can't—_  
  
He heard his name again, felt Jon grab his wrists, and realized he had been begging incoherently while clawing at Jon's shirt; he gulped hard and tried again. "Please, Jon, please don't let them cancel my show, please...."  
  
"I won't! Of course it won't be canceled. It's amazing work, it's killing in the ratings, it's not going to be thrown out just because you have a few bad days. But Stephen, do you really want to go on TV like this?"  
  
He shook his head violently. "No, but—but I can't give up—I'm not a quitter, Jon!—"  
  
"No, no, of course not," murmured Jon. "Oh, Stephen, you are so many things, but you have never been a quitter."  
  
And he sounded so sincere that Stephen just nodded mutely.  
  
"If you think you're okay by broadcast time, that's your call," continued Jon soothingly. "But at least let me take you to the hospital first. The doctor can probably prescribe something that will help you pull yourself together. Does that sound like a plan?"  
  
Stephen sniffled and nodded some more.  
  
"Okay. Okay. Good." With one hand Jon began to stroke Stephen's hair, which had managed to still be perfectly coiffed when he arrived but which Stephen could just _feel_ was now a disheveled mess. "I'm gonna call and tell her we're coming. You want to clean yourself up a little?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Jon eased himself back, holding Stephen's wrists but giving him the space he needed to sit up—which he did, if shakily. "There you go. You can do this."  
  
Stephen pulled his hand free and waved towards a filing cabinet. "There's—in the box on top—"  
  
Jon waited, silent, while Stephen stumbled and swallowed and tried again.  
  
"—extra Tek Jansen shirts," he finished. "If maybe you want to change."  
  
"Probably a good idea," said Jon with a gentle smile. "You've pretty well ruined this one."  
  
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"  
  
"Hey, hey, hey, none of that! It's fine, Stephen. It's a grey T-shirt. I've got a closet full of 'em. Stephen, don't cry."  
  
Stephen snorted wetly. "It's a little late for _that_ , Jon."  
  
"Why, I do believe that was _smarm_." Jon smiled more broadly. "You're going to pull through this, you hear me? You're gonna be okay."  
  
Stephen did his best to believe it.


	11. In Sickness And In Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [the Nation is fast with flowers](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/90628/july-30-2007/get-well-soon); [anagrams](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-august-9-2007/anagrams); [badgers](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/90630/july-30-2007/threatdown---scottish-surgeons); [total frustration](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-august-9-2007/president-bush-in-his-own-words). Hat Tip to the [Internet Anagram Server](http://wordsmith.org/anagram/advanced.html) for its input.

He opened his eyes and saw a wall of color.  
  
_This has to be a dream,_ he thought, looking over the chromatic blur that filled his vision. _At least it's a nice one._  
  
The last scene he remembered was all in flashes. A pristine white hospital room. Dr. Moreau telling him that yes, she understood that he was a human being and not a pincushion, but an injection would be faster-acting than a pill, and didn't he want to get this over with? Himself, nodding, barely able to breathe. Jon, beside him, holding his hand while the doctor rolled up his sleeve.  
  
His hand lay empty now, on something that felt like a sheet; he rolled over onto his back, and felt a mattress underneath him.  
  
"Are you awake?" asked Charlene's voice.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh, good, you are," breathed Charlene. "You want your glasses?"  
  
"Gimme."  
  
He reached out, felt the frames, put them on so hastily that he nearly poked himself in the eye. Once they were on, he looked back in the direction of all the colors, which were kind enough to resolve themselves into a whole lot of flowers before he was temporarily blinded by the ceiling light flickering on.  
  
"If I'm awake," he said as his eyes adjusted, "then why am I in a garden?"  
  
"You're not. You're at RYT Hospital. Your fans sent you flowers."  
  
"Wait, how long have I been here?"  
  
"A couple of hours. The Colbert Nation moves fast."  
  
He started to sit up. "I can't stay here—I'll be late for the _Report_ —"  
  
"You've already been late. I'm sorry, Stephen. It's half past one."  
  
Stephen took a moment to process this, then flopped back onto the bed in despair. _I just fell apart all over Jon, and then I missed my own show...._ "Jon's gonna hate me," he mumbled.  
  
"No, he isn't," said Charlene matter-of-factly. "If you turn on the TV now you might catch the rerun of the toss. Want to?"  
  
Stephen caught his breath. "Yes!"  
  
The television was hanging near the top of the far wall; it flickered on just in time to catch John Oliver's voice saying, "—check in with our good fr— with our good—with Stephen Colbert, over at _The Colbert Report_. Steph— oh, Jon!"  
  
Jon was sitting in Stephen's chair, somehow managing to radiate newsy presence despite the Tek Jansen T-shirt and utter lack of tie. "Breaking news, John," he said briskly. "There will be no _Colbert Report_ tonight, because its esteemed host, Stephen Colbert, is currently in the hospital, recovering from the stress incurred by working so hard to defend ordinary Americans from what I believe he calls 'the insidious liberal agenda.'"  
  
The correspondent had the decency to look sympathetic. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that. Is he going to be all right?"  
  
"Oh, it'll take more than that to slow Stephen down," said Jon with a smile. "But in the meantime, to all viewers in the Nation who may be watching: send him your love and appreciation. He's like Tinkerbell; he'll get better if you clap for him. Oh—and throw in some flowers. He'd probably like flowers."  
  
"Thank you, Jon," said Oliver. "Jon Stewart, everybody. That's our show; join us tomorrow night, when Tal Ben-Shahar, whose name I assume I just mangled, will be our guest...."  
  
"Great, Jon," muttered Stephen to the screen. "Tell the whole world I'm a fairy, why don't you."  
  
"Do you want to watch your—?"  
  
"Turn it off." Normally Stephen was all in favor of watching reruns of himself, but right now it would just remind him of what he'd missed. "Where's Jon now?"  
  
"Don't know. Probably at home."  
  
"What about Dr. Moreau?"  
  
"We can call her if you want her. She's been checking in on you every half hour or so."  
  
"That's okay. Where's George?"  
  
"He's right here. You want to hold him?"  
  
For the first time Stephen looked over at Charlene, and saw that there was a bassinet next to her chair. The whole setup was in hospital-white, but he leaned over to look inside the bassinet and saw his contentedly dozing son wrapped in stars and stripes.  
  


  
"Better not," he said quietly. "He's sleeping. Better not wake him up."  
  
As he eased himself back down onto the bed, he felt tears of relief prickle at the corners of his eyes. _He's okay. I haven't screwed him up yet._  
  
"Hey," said Charlene faintly, and all of a sudden Stephen noticed that Charlene had been speaking softly not just because of George, but because her voice itself was thin and hoarse. "You're gonna be okay. You hear me? You just need some rest."  
  
"Sure," agreed Stephen. "Some rest. That's all."  
  
"That's the spirit." Mustering a weak smile, Charlene held up a hand. "Up top."  
  
Stephen returned the high-five, but when she immediately followed it up with another gesture, he fell back. "I—I don't remember the rest. I'm sorry."  
  
Charlene shook her head. "It's okay. It's just a stupid thing we did when we were kids. Not important."  
  
As her hand dropped to her side, Stephen caught it in his own and squeezed. "Charlene?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I'm glad you're with me."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 9, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
"You can't keep me here."  
  
Phoebe tried not to let her irritation show. Stephen was resolutely refusing to talk about what had led to his admission, tearful and hyperventilating, the previous day; he had made one escape attempt that morning, and only the threat of sedation had kept him from making another.  
  
"You're right," she said. "I cannot have you taking up a bed here long-term, especially not a single. However, I _can_ have you transferred to the psychiatric ward, so—"  
  
" _I'm not crazy!_ "  
  
"Stephen, I will leave this room right now if you don't calm down."  
  
Her patient took a few deep breaths, nostrils flaring. "I _am_ calm," he insisted after a moment, in a passably steady tone. "And I'm not crazy."  
  
"I'm well aware of that, Stephen, but you need to talk to me."  
  
"No."  
  
Phoebe mentally prescribed herself something for a headache. Something strong. "Will you at least tell me why not?"  
  
Stephen folded his arms and looked away. Phoebe waited.  
  
At last he said, petulantly, "I don't _want_ to."  
  
"Jon Stewart said—"  
  
Stephen's head snapped around. "Oh, God, what did he tell you?"  
  
"That you had been talking to him, and that he wasn't going to share any of it without your permission." ( _Patients!_ thought one part of her brain in irritation. _Men!_ countered another.)  
  
"Good." Stephen set his jaw. "I knew I could trust him."  
  
"But you can't trust me, is that it?"  
  
Stephen's eyes went shifty. He didn't answer.  
  
"Stephen, if you won't talk, I won't be able to help you. And I'll have no choice but to transfer you into the care of someone else who can. Would you prefer that?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Then you need to talk to me."  
  
Stephen looked like he was about to cry again. He hid his face in his hands, like a little kid, as he took a few shuddering breaths.  
  
Again, Phoebe waited.  
  
At last Stephen spoke through his fingers: "Where's Jon?"  
  
"I don't know. Probably working."  
  
"If Jon was here," said Stephen haltingly, "I would talk."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Can we get a few minutes alone first?" asked Jon, as they approached Stephen's room.  
  
"Take as much time as you need," said Moreau, holding the door for him. "We can go to my office whenever you're ready."  
  
"Thanks," said Jon, and slipped in.  
  
Stephen was sitting up on the bed; someone had gotten him a change of clothes, and he was looking intently at the notebook propped against his knees. There were a few torn-off pages scattered around him, and a pen held between his teeth.  
  


  
He looked up, and brightened, as Jon came over and sat down on the mattress beside him. "There you are!"  
  
"Here I am," echoed Jon with a smile. "I see the Nation didn't skimp on the flowers." His eye caught the bassinet. "Is George here?"  
  
"He was here overnight. Charlene took him home."  
  
"Oh. Okay. What are you working on?"  
  
"The toss."  
  
"I—Stephen, your crew has the day off. You're not going to get in today."  
  
"Then I'll just do this Monday," declared Stephen blithely. "It's too good to waste." He tilted the notebook so that Jon could see; it was covered with strings of letters, half of them crossed off. "I've found all these cool anagrams. Did you know that Joe Biden's name rearranges to 'I Need Job'? Coincidence?"  
  
"Well, yes, Stephen, I think it probably is."  
  
"And 'Rudy Giuliani' anagrams to 'Gaudily I Ruin'. Telling, no?"  
  
"Uh...."  
  
"Humor me, Jon, or I won't tell you what 'Jon Stewart' anagrams to."  
  
"All right, all right, there's a deep secret meaning in the way you can rearrange the letters of someone's name. What's mine?"  
  
"'Fred Thompson' is 'Forms No Depth'. 'Barack Obama' is 'Osama bin Laden'."  
  
"Now hang on, Stephen, that last one...."  
  
"'Jon Stewart' is 'Snort at Jew'."  
  
"Wait—really?" Jon looked at the ceiling, trying to picture the letters. Sure enough. "That's pretty cool."  
  
"Of course it is. But the best thing I've gotten for 'Stephen Colbert' so far is 'Rebel Stench Pot'. I've been working on 'Dr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert, D.F.A.', but that's a lot of letters, so it's taking longer."  
  
"Sounds reasonable."  
  
Stephen looked back down at the notebook. "I can get 'correspondent' out of it, though. That's got to lead somewhere."  
  
"So it does. But can you put it aside for a while?"  
  
"Do I have to? I'm on a roll here, Jon."  
  
"Yeah, but I can't stay. I took a long lunch, but even so, they're going to need me back in the studio soon. So if we're going to talk to Dr. Moreau while I'm here, we need to hurry."  
  
Stephen set his pen down and stared in the direction of the page for a moment, unblinking.  
  
"Stephen...?"  
  
"Okay," said Stephen quietly. "Okay. Let's go. Let's—talk. If you insist."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
It was a twisting and fragmented story. Stephen muddled through about half of it, while Jon filled in the other half with his prompting. Phoebe was sure she wasn't getting any more than a vague sketch of Stephen's mental state, especially given the way Jon kept looking to Stephen and getting nothing, waiting to be prompted for something that Stephen didn't want to share.  
  
At last Jon came to a halting finish. "So I thought—PTSD. Or something related. It sounds like it, right? With the, the memory issues, and the fear...?"  
  
"I would certainly say it's a factor," agreed Phoebe. "And, frankly, it doesn't surprise me."  
  
Stephen's head snapped up. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"  
  
"Well, one of the main symptoms in people who have been through traumatic events—of any kind—is high sensitivity to threats in general."  
  
"I'm not 'sensitive'," sulked Stephen.  
  
Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "Do you remember the content of the last ThreatDown?"  
  
"Weak American bellies, the bankrupt, party poopers, Scottish surgeons, and badgers," replied Stephen without missing a beat.  
  
"I'm sorry—did you say 'badgers'?"  
  
"Not just any badgers. Giant man-eating badgers. They're stalking the streets of Basra by night. Stop looking at me like that! It was in Australia's _Daily Telegraph_. That's a respectable news source."  
  
"And where is Basra, exactly?"  
  
"Iraq."  
  
"All right. A report of giant badgers may be unnerving, but even if it's true, that's awfully far away...."  
  
"Didn't you say," interrupted Jon, turning to Stephen, "that we should bomb the University of Wisconsin?"  
  
"Carpet-bomb it. Just to make sure! As a pre-emptive strike!"  
  
Phoebe frowned. "I'm afraid I don't see the connection...."  
  
"Their mascot's a badger," explained Jon.  
  
"Can't be too careful, Jon!"  
  
"But don't you see?" interrupted Phoebe. "That's exactly what you're doing. When you get these panic attacks, or emotional outbursts that you can't control, it's because your system is overreacting to threats that don't exist. It's because you're being too careful."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen was still absorbing this idea when Jon did one of his nervous little jumps. "Um. Listen, I'm really sorry, but I need to go. I'm going to be late already."  
  
"Just a second," asked Stephen, looking from him to Moreau. "Really quick—how do we fix it?"  
  
"We don't," replied the doctor bluntly. "Not quickly. Stephen, I need a few minutes with you alone."  
  
"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of—"  
  
"Doctor's orders."  
  
"It's okay, Stephen," put in Jon. "I'll wait right outside."  
  
As soon as he was gone, Stephen put up his hackles. It had been all he could do to stay conscious for the breakdown in front of Jon, and that was with strong arms around him and his name being constantly chanted in his ear. "What do you want?"  
  
"Stephen, psychiatry isn't my field. There's only so much I can do for you. I'd like you to talk to someone, a colleague of mine, who—"  
  
"I'm not seeing a shrink and you can't make me," snapped Stephen. There. That ought to settle that.  
  
For a second Moreau looked like she wanted to argue, then sighed and let it go. Wise woman. "Will you at least agree to come in over the weekend for a longer talk with me? Jon too, if he's available. I'd like to help you figure out some coping strategies, and I'll need a few days to do some research first."  
  
"If it'll make you feel better," said Stephen loftily.  
  
She nodded. "The last time you were here, Dr. Livingston prescribed you some antidepressants. Did you—?"  
  
"Tore up the prescription. And don't look at me like that!" barked Stephen, as the doctor's exasperation began to show through. "What, you think I'm just some knee-jerk anti-intellectual who automatically dismisses all medication as crutches for handwringing liberals who can't pull themselves up by their own bootstraps?"  
  
"The thought had occurred to me," said Moreau dryly.  
  


  
"Well, I'm _not_. For one thing, I am a very vocal supporter of painkillers. For another," and here he jabbed a finger at her for emphasis as his voice rose triumphantly, "I have been _on_ antidepressants. For the _recommended trial period_ , even. And it was a _disaster_."  
  
To his dismay, the doctor did not wilt under his unassailable logic. Instead, she gave him a look that was downright sympathetic. "Dear me, Stephen. Why didn't you just say so?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Phoebe stood outside Stephen's room, making sure nobody with a loose tongue walked past, while the two said goodbye.  
  
The door was closed, but the blinds open: she couldn't hear what Stephen was ranting about, nor the soothing words that Jon used to reply. But, glancing in, she could see her patient's expression and body language move from angry to pleading to resigned.  
  
Jon was more reserved, but his emotions were no less evident. They overflowed in a multitude of tender little gestures: the straightening of Stephen's collar, the tucking back of stray locks of hair, the gentle acquiescence when Stephen clutched at his shirt, and the final light kiss before they separated.  
  
When Jon came out, he gave Phoebe his best genial smile. "See you on Saturday?"  
  
"I look forward to it."  
  
He started down the hall, then turned back. "Hey, doc?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Do you think it means anything that the letters in 'The Daily Show with Jon Stewart' can be rearranged to spell 'Twist: Withdrawn, He Loathes Joy'?"  
  
"Yes," said Phoebe promptly. "It means that Stephen has too much time on his hands. Don't worry, he'll be out of here soon. His wife's on her way over."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
After two minutes of jazz, thirty seconds of NPR, and half of a deodorant commercial, Jon switched the radio off and drove the rest of the way back to the studio in silence.  
  
DJ looked like more than ready to give him a stern talking-to, but his arrival was late enough that it was a luxury they didn't have time for.  
  
They went at a whirlwind pace through editing, pulled off a rehearsal that was very nearly timely, and somehow managed to find enough exasperating clips of Bush that they could fill the time normally set aside for the toss. Despite his slapdash preparation, Jon had never acted such convincing and total frustration as he did during that montage.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Honey? I'm home...."  
  
"It's about time."  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I meant to call." Jon kicked off his shoes, tossed his baseball cap into the closet. "We ran really late, is all. I spent lunch visiting Stephen, and...."  
  
The relief on his wife's face melted into something that could have passed for anger if it weren't so tired. "Of course you did."  
  
"Trace, babe, don't do this. He's been in the hospital. He needs—"  
  
"'He needs', 'he needs'!" echoed Tracey impatiently. "There's a lot that Stephen needs, Jon! How far are you going to let your job slip trying to keep up with him? And after the job, what's next?"  
  
Jon winced. "...I guess this would be a bad time to mention that I promised to go back with him on Saturday?"  
  
Turning on her heel, Tracey stalked off down the hall.  
  
Jon tagged after her, keeping his voice low as they passed the kids' rooms. "He can't help it. He's sick. He can't get better without support...."  
  
"We're supposed to have an arrangement, Jon!" hissed his wife. "You're supposed to _tell_ me before you plan to spend time with Stephen. I agreed to let you have a relationship with him, not to stand by while you sabotage the rest of your life to subsidize his breakdown!"  
  
"Trace, please. It's no more than I would do for you."  
  
"Of course it is!" exclaimed Tracey, and even in a whisper her voice was breaking. "I'm _self-sufficient_ , remember?"  
  
With that, she closed the bedroom door in his face.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
A faint patch of moonlight inched its way from one edge of the wall to the other.  
  
He didn't think he had fallen asleep, but all of a sudden the moonlight had jumped two feet and Tracey was crouching next to the sofa.  
  
"'Msorry," he breathed, though he wasn't quite sure yet that she wasn't just an especially nice dream.  
  
"Just answer me one thing," she whispered.  
  
"Anything."  
  
"Gun to your head, you have to pick one. Me or Stephen?"  
  
It was the question that had lurked in the back of Jon's mind for the past month, the one to which he had spun many witty and eloquent treatises, none of which he was lucid enough to remember.  
  
"Answer me first," he mumbled instead. "Same question...."  
  
"You."  
  
Jon held up a hand. "Lemme finish."  
  
"Sorry. Go ahead."  
  
"Nate or Maggie?"  
  
Tracey's breath caught in the dark.  
  
Then she laced her fingers through his and squeezed. "Come to bed, dear."  
  
It would have been easier at that point to just close his eyes where he was; but Jon dragged his heavy limbs up from the cushions, walked by her side down the hall, and fell asleep with grateful arms around her.


	12. Child's Play

**August 10, 2007  
Friday**  
  
Stephen handed the prescription across the counter as automatically as possible, then put it out of his mind as he carried George around the aisles, filling a basket with baby aspirin and cough medicine, diapers and wipes, no-tears shampoo and no-screaming-burning-pain aftershave.  
  
When he had gotten ahold of everything on Charlene's list, he strolled down the pharmaceutical aisle, pointing out the drugs that sponsored his show and baby-talking his way through their names, until the rest of the twenty-five minutes were up. Trying once more not to think too hard, he shuffled up to the register and retrieved the bag with a little bottle of pills.  
  
He wasn't going to need them. He _wasn't_. But as long as he had the right to them, he might as well take advantage of it, right?  
  
Besides, if it did somehow turn out that the doctor was on to something—with her fancy technical talk about antidepressants only working on _depression_ , but having potentially catastrophic reactions for people with other disorders, and something about a bipolar spectrum and comorbidity with PTSD and blah, blah, blah, if doctors couldn't keep their own diagnoses straight he didn't see why he should have to—but if there did end up being something to it, well, it couldn't hurt to be prepared, right?  
  
No reason he had to mention it to anyone, of course. One disorder was quite enough for them to deal with.  
  
As he was unloading his basket at the checkout, he noticed that one of the brightly colored candy bars lined up before the register had somehow found its way into his pile. "George!" he chided, tapping the baby reproachfully on the nose. "Did you sneak this in there? Because you can't even eat solid food yet, you know that."  
  
The clerk, a young woman who had somehow managed to stay employed even with green streaks in her hair, insisted on holding onto his credit card until he signed the receipt, then held them up next to each other and frowned. "These signatures don't match."  
  
"What do you mean, don't match? Of course they match. It's my—"  
  
She showed him the receipt, and Stephen sucked in a breath. Instead of his normal, made-for-portraits elegant flourish, the paper bore a childish printing: _Stevie C._  
  
A second later, he pasted on his most charming grin. "Just testing. You passed! Congratulations. Now gimme."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"So I guess you heard the diagnosis...?"  
  
"Tentative diagnosis," corrected Tracey. Even in veterinary medicine, you learned to be picky about these things.  
  
"It's still a good sign," opined Charlene. "It's something to work with. It's a starting point."  
  
The kids had been assigned to their fathers for the afternoon, giving Tracey and Charlene the chance to have something like an actual date; and Charlene's knack for finding restaurants had led them to a sunny café Tracey hadn't even heard of. Now that they had settled in and ordered, she was torn between wanting to ask more about Stephen and wanting to spend a few hours putting him out of her mind.  
  
"It's going to be a lot to deal with," she said, vaguely enough that the conversation could go either way.  
  
"You don't have to."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"If—if it's too much," stammered Charlene, pushing stuffed grape leaves around her plate. "If Stephen's more than you can handle—it's what his ex-wife did, took their kids, cut her losses, and got out of the way—it isn't what I would want, but—don't stay in this only because you think you're not allowed to leave, all right? Because that, that only makes everyone miserable."  
  
Idly running her thumb over the curlicues engraved on the base of her spoon, Tracey shook her head. "It's all right. Jon and I have been talking, and...we can do this. I can do this."  
  
Charlene gave her a relieved smile before taking a sip of her drink.  
  
"What about you?" asked Tracey suddenly. "Why are you staying with him? It can't be easy, and it's certainly not because you're in love with him, and if you know you're allowed to leave...."  
  
"Superficial," mused Charlene, looking down at the drink in her hand. "No depth. Shy bouquet."  
  
"Charlene." Tracey tipped her head at her own bottle, which was bright pink. "These are _wine coolers_. You're trying to do a full-fledged tasting on the alcoholic equivalent of Kool-Aid."  
  
The other woman blushed. "Sorry."  
  
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't—"  
  
"I do." Charlene grimaced. "It's just—I can't answer it properly without explaining about my family. _Our_ family, Stephen's and mine. The Col-berts," she added, spitting out the hard _T_. "Have I even mentioned them to you before?"  
  
Tracey shook her head. "You mostly talk about things that happened in Europe."  
  
"When I was across an ocean from my relatives? That's not a coincidence."  
  
"I always figured it was because Europe was more interesting."  
  
"Oh, we're _interesting_ ," said Charlene with a dry laugh. "They could do a whole season of Jerry Springer on us alone. We are damaged, damaged people. And we pass that damage around like a Christmas fruitcake." She took a decidedly ungraceful gulp of her mango wine cooler. "Give me a few minutes? I'm going to need to be lightly drunk before I start."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen explained all about anagrams to Nate over the picnic table, while George watched the clouds in fascination and Jon encouraged Maggie to appreciate the value of strained beets. Nate made an exceptional audience, Stephen thought, except for the part when he got distracted putting carrot sticks up his nose.  
  
While the adults were cleaning up after the meal and Nate and Maggie were off making messes in the sandbox, Jon remarked, "You know he doesn't even have the order of the alphabet down yet, right?"  
  
"He shouldn't need to," asserted Stephen, shoveling bread crusts into the trash bag. "Who does the alphabet think it is, telling him what order it should go in? If he wants to put Q before M, that's his right as an American."  
  
Jon put up a fist to cover his giggling. "I guess that's one way to look at it," he admitted.  
  
"Maybe it would help if I wrote them down," suggested Stephen, grabbing his wallet. "I think I still have some notes in here...."  
  
He tugged out the anagram masterlist, sending a few other scraps of paper spilling out onto the (cleaned, thankfully) end of the table. A losing Take 5 ticket, a dollar bill with "TCR Comedy Central 11:30 PM" inked over the serial number, an old photo....  
  
Stephen did a double-take as the photo caught his eye. The face was instantly recognizable in spite of its babyish roundness, with Maggie's ears framing a tiny smile and a nose already unmistakable at five years old.  
  
"Oh, wow, where'd you get that?" broke in Jon, leaning over his shoulder.  
  
"It isn't mine," said Stephen automatically. "I don't know how it got there."  
  
"Uh-huh." Jon picked up the photo, looked it over appraisingly. "Hm. This one isn't bad. You didn't steal it from my mother, did you?"  
  
Stephen gave him a friendly elbow to the gut. "I just _told_ you, I didn't put it there."  
  
"Stephen, come on. I'm not upset or anything. You don't have to be in denial about this."  
  
"I'm not in denial!"  
  
Jon raised his eyebrows.  
  
Huffing in frustration, Stephen snatched the photo, stuffed it back in his wallet along with the money, and grabbed a couple of empty soda cans to stomp on.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"You have to understand," said Charlene, just lightheaded enough that she was enunciating with painstaking clarity, "when Stephen and I were kids, we were best friends. I mean, we needed cootie shots to get within ten feet of each other, but we were best friends anyway."  
  
"I always imagined him being the kind of kid who couldn't share his toys," remarked Tracey.  
  
"Well, sort of. You have to understand, though—our extended family is huge. He's the youngest of eleven; I'm one of eight; our fathers are brothers, they're ten years apart, there's maybe three aunts in between. You learned to get grabby if you wanted anything at all."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"The crowding wasn't the only problem, either. All our families were screwed up in their own individual ways. My parents, for instance—they're too Catholic to divorce, so they've spent most of their marriage hating each other. Half the time I went looking for a place to get away from their fights, I ended up playing with Stephen."  
  


  
She toyed with her fork, nails clicking against the metal.  
  
"I don't know why the two of us hit it off," she mused. "Maybe it was just luck. Or maybe we had some kind of kiddie gaydar going on: telling us to look out for each other, because none of the adults around were going to. We had a cousin who came out when I was still in elementary school, and he ended up disowned. Nobody talked about him after, either. Like he'd just been erased."  
  
Tracey shuddered. "God, Charlene. That's awful."  
  
"It hit Stephen hardest," said Charlene softly. "That, and all rest of the crazy anti-gay stuff we got spoon-fed. It wasn't until high school that things got strained between us, and it was because half the time he was insisting that we ought to do the proper thing and start dating."  
  
"Oh...."  
  
"All this while I was still trying to convince myself I was just being a good chaste Catholic girl. And he wasn't asking me to be a beard for his own safety, either. He was serious. Or at least, he had convinced himself he was."  
  
"Then...the stalking...."  
  
"We were a couple of angry, confused, hormonal, terrified teenagers," said Charlene distantly. "The more pressure he was under, the more possessive and clingy he got. The harder he clung, the more stressed I got, the more I just wanted to turn and run. And the more I pulled away...you get the picture."  
  
She paused to take another drink; Tracey waited, perfectly attentive.  
  
"I'm not saying he was right," she insisted at last. "But what happened back then...the lurking, the phone calls, all the refusing to take no for an answer...it came out of what he was going through at the time. What we were both going through. It's only a small part of our history. And it wouldn't happen again."  
  
"Are you sure?" blurted Tracey.  
  
At last Charlene's eyes genuinely brightened. "Have you seen the way he looks at George? The total unabashed ends-of-the-earth-and-back adoration? There's no way he's ever going to mix that feeling up with anything else."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"You better appreciate this," declared Stephen, holding George up until they were nose-to-nose. "That was the bravest thing I've ever done, and all because I didn't want _you_ to be smelly."  
  
George drooled with a distinct lack of appreciation.  
  
Muttering about ungrateful one-month-olds, Stephen wiped the baby's mouth before carrying him over to the bench from which Jon was keeping an eye on the playground. "Can you believe they don't have changing tables in the men's room?" he huffed.  
  
Jon raised his eyebrows. "What, you never noticed before?"  
  
"No! It's discrimination against men, is what it is. Where's the ACLU when you really need them?"  
  
"Probably working on that whole seventy-cents-to-the-dollar problem," said Jon with an indulgent smile, before sobering. "Stephen? Can I ask you something?"  
  
"You liberals and your questions," muttered Stephen, then winced when he caught the look in Jon's eyes. "But go ahead."  
  
"You really don't remember getting a photo of me anywhere?"  
  
Stephen bounced George gently on his knee. "I told you, Jon. I didn't do it."  
  


  
"And, uh, how about all those times you've called me asking for help, and then said the same thing? Like when you tricked me into coming over so you could demand an apology to Geraldo, or—"  
  
"Don't be silly, Jon," interrupted Stephen. "I've never—" Breaking off, he lowered his voice. "Before this week, I've never called you for help."  
  
A whisper at the back of his mind ( _don't listen to him don't let him scare you_ ), and he almost missed what Jon said next: "Stephen, are you still having memory problems? Not just for the, uh, the stuff you used to do, but more recently?"  
  
Something hidden deep in Stephen stirred, a vague yearning that threatened to coalesce, expand, and rip him apart if he didn't ease the pressure. Also, his legs were tingling.  
  
"Jon," he said, voice hardly cracking at all, "I need to take George on the slide now."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"I'm so embarrassed," gasped Tracey, though it sounded decidedly less sincere when she couldn't stop giggling. "Never been thrown out of a place before."  
  
"'S not your fault," insisted Charlene, now down to a respectable slur. "Any 'stablishment worth its salt, you get a good rhythm going, th' crowd'll join in."  
  
"And if most of the crowd didn't go to CCD?"  
  
"Pfffft. Ev'ryone's got _some_ childhood song. Once got th' whole rest of th' bar to burst into a chorus from Hebrew school. Couldn't understand a word of it. 'Sides, didn't you ever sing songs from musicals in chapel?"  
  
Tracey clapped her hands, still laughing. "Better! We had Peter, Paul  & Mary in our hymnals! Jon never believes me when I say so!"  
  
"How 'bout this one?" interjected Charlene. " _The King of Glory comes, the nation rejoices..._ "  
  
" _...Open the gates before him, lift up your voices!_ " joined in Tracey, and together they plunged through the whole song, walking hand in hand down the street in the sunset light.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon pushed Nate and Maggie on side-by-side swings, keeping an eye on the sun as it sank lower in the sky. The gentle creaking of the swingset, along with the shrieks and giggles of other kids still running around the park this late, was just rhythmic enough that it gave his mind plenty of space to run rampant with worries.  
  
Stephen was almost certainly forgetting things.  
  
On the one hand, it softened the edge of his multitude of his blatant denials if they were out of genuine amnesia, rather than open mistrust of Jon. But that was cold comfort if Stephen's memory was cutting out on a regular basis. And for such minor things! Was he really so afraid to show Jon weakness that he couldn't let himself know when he did it?  
  
And did he remember the sex?  
  
Jon roughly filed the thought away to bring up with the doctor. Stephen was in full-on avoidance mode at the moment, which was only fair; better to give any potential triggers a wide berth than to risk a breakdown in a public park.  
  
When the kids insisted on coming back to the ground, Jon stopped their swings with a gentle reminder that it would be time to go soon, suffered through a couple of theatrical _awww_ s, and watched them scurry off (Nate running, Maggie toddling) before retreating to the bench where their picnic things were piled.  
  
Stephen had fallen asleep in the grass, George's carrier plonked down beside him.  
  
Smiling at the picture the two made together, Jon reached for Stephen's glasses, which were pressing red marks into the bridge of his nose, and slid them off—  
  
With a sudden cry Stephen twisted away, drawing his knees to his chest and throwing up his arms like a makeshift shield.  
  
Jon jumped back, nearly dropping the glasses. "Stephen, it's me!"  
  
Stephen's eyes snapped open, and for an instant they stared wildly at something in the distance.  
  
Then he caught sight of Jon, and sprawled back out with an indignant sulk. "Of course it's you, Jon. Who else would it be?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen was still sulking as the end credits rolled.  
  
It wasn't that he objected to movie nights on principle. He didn't even mind someone else choosing the movie—just so long as they chose the _right_ movie. And on this point, Tracey had failed miserably.  
  
"Come on, Stephen," insisted Charlene, who had spent the whole thing being much gigglier than he remembered her, "you laughed at some of that."  
  
"Sometimes it was _funny_ ," admitted Stephen grudgingly. "But it was still terrible."  
  
"Oh, come on," protested Tracey, who had spent the whole thing being completely unfazed by the fact that Stephen glared daggers at her whenever he remembered. "How so?"  
  
"Where to _start?_ " exclaimed Stephen. "Trillian shouldn't need saving. She saved the whole universe on her own once! And Arthur's one true love is Fenchurch, anyway. And—and Zaphod! He's not supposed to be an idiot! Sure, his ego is so big that it shows up on a map of the universe, but that doesn't mean he's not clever. Probably even cleverer than he seems, because he had to shut down parts of his brains before they would let him run for President in the first place!"  
  
"Uh, wow," said Jon, who had spent the whole thing watching Nate and Maggie fall adorably asleep on either side of him. "I think I missed that scene."  
  
"It wasn't in the _movie_ , Jon."  
  
"Oh." Jon blinked. "Then, uh, where...?"  
  
Stephen huffed a long-suffering sigh. "The books. That's right! I've read the books. I'm a geek. You got me!"  
  
"Uh, Stephen? That's not exactly a big secret. I mean, you _have_ played with _Lord of the Rings_ toys on camera."  
  
"Only after Rick Santorum referred to the Eye of Sauron on the floor of Congress. It can't be too far out of the mainstream if _he_ knows about it."  
  
"That's a good point," admitted Jon, one finger idly twirling through Maggie's curls. "But how much worse can you be?"  
  
"Aragorn, the son of Arathorn, was known as Elessar, and also called Estel, which means 'hope' in Elvish; the men of Bree called him Strider, and when he was younger and he lived in Gondor he was called Thorongil, because he had to have an assumed name, he couldn't really—you have no idea who I'm talking about."  
  
"Sure we do," cut in Tracey. "Viggo Mortenson, right?"  
  
Stephen groaned. "Why do I bother?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The prescription bottle lay stuffed in a drawer under the bathroom sink, and Stephen lay on his back next to a lightly snoring Jon. Warm though the night was, he had the sheets tucked up around his neck.  
  
"I don't need them, anyway," he said firmly. "I can do this. I got through today without falling apart, didn't I?"  
  
_Only because you wouldn't talk about anything more important than Zaphod Beeblebrox._  
  
"Shake it off, Col-bert," hissed Stephen. "Zaphod is plenty important. Besides, you'll go back to the doctor tomorrow, and Jon will be there, and you'll be able to talk until you turn blue, and everything will be fine. Now man up and get some rest."  
  
He spent the next fifteen minutes tossing, turning, aching, and utterly failing to fall asleep.  
  
At last he crawled out of bed, retrieved the crumpled photo from his wallet, and gently smoothed out its creases before tucking it under his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat Tip to the helpful crowd over at [](http://little-details.livejournal.com/profile)[**little_details**](http://little-details.livejournal.com/) for [background](http://community.livejournal.com/little_details/2544703.html) on this one. The movie is _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ ; note [the relevant passage](http://i142.photobucket.com/albums/r102/sailorptah/grace/grace06.png) from the books.
> 
> Clips referenced: [apologizing to Geraldo](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/72856/august-14-2006/jon-s-apology); [the Eye of Sauron](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/76932/october-18-2006/santorum-s-iraqi-lord-of-the-rings); [Aragorn's names](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-september-27-2005/viggo-mortenson).


	13. Flowers and Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal._  
>  —Albert Camus
> 
> Clips referenced: [the subconscious](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/68867/may-09-2006/the-word---superegomaniac); [how are you holding up?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFQFB5YpDZE)

**August 11, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
"It's called dissociation," said Phoebe briskly.  
  
Outside it was raining again, and her visitors were still slightly damp in spite of the umbrellas they had left in the waiting room. The office, though, was warm and dry and bright. And, even more importantly for Stephen's comfort, it contained a doctor with a large and thorough pile of notes.  
  
"Dissociation," repeated Stephen, squeezing Jon's hand. "And that's normal."  
  
"Very. It's often one of the first defenses people use under severe trauma. When you can't physically escape from a situation, your mind disengages."  
  
"Like daydreaming on steroids," offered Stephen.  
  
"You could put it that way. Except that once you've learned to do it, it can become automatic. Anything that puts you under stress, or even just reminds you of the circumstances under which you were hurt, can trigger your dissociation faster than you could consciously react."  
  
"I don't have a subconscious," said Stephen automatically.  
  
Phoebe rather doubted that. Still, it didn't mean Stephen wasn't on to something. "Do you do it consciously?"  
  
"...Sometimes."  
  
"Stephen, you don't control the flashbacks," protested Jon.  
  
Stephen squirmed. "I can put myself in a...a state, where they don't happen. If the triggers are building up, I...dissociate, for a while, and then I come out of it and I'm fine. The couple of times it happened with you, I didn't have time to switch, that's all."  
  
Jon looked suddenly pained. "After you, uh, come out of it, do you remember...?"  
  
"I remember kissing you," said Stephen dully.  
  
Steadying his expression, Jon addressed Phoebe. "But he _can't_ have been just daydreaming when we were together. He was focused. He was talented. He was—" He turned back to Stephen. "You were _bantering._ "  
  
"Sounds like splitting," offered Phoebe.  
  
"What's that?" demanded Stephen, laserlike stare snapping over to her.  
  
"It's another defense that—"  
  
Stephen's face twisted into a grimace. "How many defenses am I going to need?"  
  
"As many as it took to keep you safe," replied Phoebe. "In the absence of any other protection, you managed to come up with these very sophisticated defense mechanisms. And nobody had to tell you what they were or how to use them; you worked it out all on your own. Under deeply stressful circumstances, no less. That's an impressive achievement."  
  
In just a few sentences, Stephen's defenses had gone from 'signs of weakness' to 'sophisticated achievements.' Even under his mask of determination, she could see the shift in his thinking play out on his face.  
  
"So I'm splitting, you say?" he asked suddenly, as businesslike as if they had never been interrupted. "And what does that mean?"  
  
"Just what it sounds like. You split off parts of your experience, keeping them separate from the rest of your consciousness, at least for a while. They can resurface later—not just the memories, but feelings, attitudes, skill sets."  
  
"Makes sense," muttered Jon. Before Stephen could snap at him for vagueness, he added, "You were giving me, um, let's just call it very porn-star sex."  
  
Stephen looked away, cheeks red. "And flashbacks are when it all comes back at once."  
  
"That's right." Phoebe gave him a few beats to adjust to this before continuing. "They don't have to be whole sequential memories, either. If you've had flashes or fragments, those still count."  
  
This was answered with a faint nod.  
  
"Most people find that it's usually even more subtle. Triggers won't kick them into a full-blown flashback, but will instead stir up emotions about the trauma that they've been keeping buried. Anger, fear, helplessness, agitation...they can be set on a low boil, not completely ruining your day, but certainly making it harder to focus."  
  
"Well, you're wrong about _that_ ," declared Stephen, straightening at the challenge. "Anger makes it _easier_ to focus."  
  
"Adrenaline will do that for short periods, yes. How good are you at long-term concentration?"  
  
"Oh, I have the attention span of a mayfly. That's why I work in television. Can we move on now?"  
  
In spite of himself, Jon stifled a snort. Stephen threw him a suspicious glance, but seemed mollified when he caught the adoring gaze that went along with it.  
  
"Almost," Phoebe assured him gently. "It isn't necessarily only things related to the trauma that are coming back. The process of repression isn't the most coordinated one, and the mind casts a wide net. It would be normal if you found even seemingly-unrelated things from around the same time of your life reasserting themselves. Hobbies and interests. Tastes in food, music, clothing. Maybe even physical pains."  
  
Stephen twitched with badly hidden interest. "What d'you mean, physical? It's not like my skin is going to all of a sudden re-bruise just because I remembered something. ...Is it?"  
  
"It would be psychosomatic," explained Phoebe. "Your mind acting on your body, even without any external cause. This isn't to say you should expect it to happen, but it's an explanation to keep in mind if...have you had unexplained bruises?"  
  
"No," huffed Stephen, then arched an imperious eyebrow at Jon. "You see? It _is_ possible to rewrite reality through sheer force of will."  
  
"I think that's what you were doing before," said Jon carefully. "And the trouble you're having now is because reality's writing itself back."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"I don't see why I can't keep this all split off forever," sulked Stephen.  
  
"It wasn't healthy to split it off in the first place," pointed out Dr. Moreau.  
  
Stephen bristled. "You just told me it was normal! Pick a side! We're at war!"  
  
"It's perfectly normal," countered the doctor. "So is a high temperature when you have the flu. That doesn't mean you can spend the rest of your life running a fever."  
  
"Sure I can. I've been fine so far, haven't I?"  
  
"You aren't fine," interrupted Jon. "You're tense, and angry, and scared, and—you aren't _happy_ , Stephen."  
  
These were all good points, and Stephen tried desperately to ignore them. "I'm happy _sometimes_ ," he protested. _I'm happy when I run on stage and the audience cheers. I'm happy when the hockey team named after me wins a game. I'm happy when I'm singing in church. I'm happy when the President notices me. I'm happy when George does—well, anything, really._  
  
"And what about when you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Or when you see something vaguely phallic and get hit by a flashback before you have a chance to dissociate? Don't you want to find a way to deal with that?"  
  
Stephen found himself overwhelmed with an almost unbearable urge to hit something. "Why can't you just not do things that are triggering? We know what they are, some of them, and we can figure out others, and you can not _do_ them!"  
  
"I can try," agreed Jon. "I'll do my best. But, Stephen...I'd kinda like to have sex with _you_."  
  
_He doesn't care about you. He just wants you sane enough that he can fuck you without feeling guilty._  
  
Stephen flinched. _Shut up!_  
  
"Don't think of this as something you'll never be able to handle," put in Dr. Moreau, drawing Stephen out of the nascent round of Formidable Opponent. "It's entirely likely that you're having these symptoms now because this is exactly when you _can_ handle them. You're financially stable, you have impressive job security, and there are people around who care about you very much."  
  
Yes, well, Stephen had had that before, hadn't he? There was a whole Nation of people who loved him.  
  
_Not in the same way. You can't tell them secrets. They can't hold you when you're scared.  
  
You can shut up as well,_ thought Stephen firmly.  
  
"All these are resources you can lean on as you try to integrate the memories."  
  
An alarm bell went off somewhere in Stephen's gut. "And what's _that?_ "  
  
"It just means undoing the repression. Resolving the split parts of your consciousness into a single—"  
  
Stephen's pulse quickened. "Why would I want to do _that?_ I don't want anything to do with those memories! It's horrible when they show up, even if it's only a few seconds!"  
  
"Stephen, the reason they're so intrusive is because you split them off rather than processing them. You never got to put them in perspective, and they never lost any of their original intensity. You can defuse them, but you'll have to remember them first."  
  
"I can't," insisted Stephen, ignoring the way his vision was blurring at the edges. "There has to be another way."  
  
"It won't be easy," said the doctor, the set of her mouth firm and uncompromising. "But it's healthiest in the long run."  
  
A shudder of disgust whipped through Stephen's body...  
  
...and then Jon got up and stood at his side, a pillar and a shield, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Stephen grabbed for it instinctively, fingers closing around Jon's.  
  
"This is a lot to take in," he said, in a voice that managed to both be gentle and brook no argument. "Stephen could probably use some time to think about it."  
  
Sure enough, Dr. Moreau immediately sat back in her chair. "Understandable. Stephen, are you still set against talking a professional?"  
  
" _Yes_ ," hissed Stephen. _The last time I went to a therapist I lost my wife and I lost my kids and I haven't seen them for eight months and I won't do it and you can't make me._  
  
"Then will you at least take a few books? I have a few here that came highly recommended. It's hard to find resources about sexual assault that aren't geared towards women, but I have one of those, as well as a couple that deal with trauma in general...."  
  
"Don't like books."  
  
Jon squeezed his shoulder. "If you don't want them now, I'll take them. Just in case."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
It was evidently Stephen's turn to be shooed out of the room, leaving Jon alone with the doctor.  
  
"I know you might have some poor associations with this question," she remarked as she handed over the books, "but how are you holding up?"  
  
Jon allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. "I've been better. But then, I'm not the one with PTSD."  
  
"It's still affecting you," pointed out Moreau. "Stephen has been seriously hurt, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't look out for yourself. Be aware of your limits. Has your work been slipping lately? Any trouble in your family life?"  
  
Okay, this was hitting far too close to home. "It's a little stressful, yeah. What else would you expect?"  
  
"Don't write it off too quickly. If you let yourself get overstressed, if you're not prepared to disengage before he hurts you, trust me when I tell you that Stephen will pick up on it. If you don't set limits, he'll just keep reinforcing his own mental roadblocks in an attempt to protect you."  
  
"He can't hurt me that badly. I keep telling him—"  
  
"He's a survivor of extended sexual trauma, you're _sleeping with him_ , and you expect him to believe he can't hurt you?"  
  
"Okay, okay, point taken," said Jon quickly. "But he does need support. I can't just cut him off."  
  
"Support isn't an all-or-nothing proposition. It is not your responsibility to meet all of his needs. It'll be healthiest for both of you if you support Stephen as far as you are able, and no farther."  
  
Jon grimaced. "Yeah, okay. I got it. I'll try."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen had, after what looked like a brief internal struggle, opted to bequeath most of his tremendous outpouring of flowers to those patients at RYT Hospital who weren't blessed with devoted fanbases. Most of them had been allocated already, but Phoebe suggested that he take home one of the bouquets remaining.  
  
Outside the room with the ever-shrinking mountain of flowers against one wall, Stephen hesitated. "Jon? Will you...pick one out for me?"  
  
Jon smiled warmly. "I'd love to."  
  
Phoebe was all set to be charmed, until Stephen turned to her the instant they were alone and spoke in a low, hurried voice. "I got the prescription. But I haven't started taking it, so don't get your hopes up."  
  
"And you haven't mentioned it to Jon," observed Phoebe. "Or Charlene, I suppose."  
  
"Why should they know about something I'm not doing?"  
  
"Please let one of them know if you start. It'll be safer if you have one or both of them able to keep an eye on you, to help keep track of side effects, especially those that might be more obvious to an independent viewer. And, of course, you'll need to come in for a few tests—"  
  
"—to make sure it isn't doing a number on my kidneys, yeah, yeah, I know. I will, okay? —If I take the pills. Which I'm not saying I will, now."  
  
"Duly noted."  
  
Before either of them could say more, Jon reappeared, the books still tucked under one arm, a plastic pot brimming with irises and miniature American flags cradled in the other. "All set," he pronounced, then took a closer look at their faces. "Hey, uh, you guys weren't just talking about me, were you?"  
  
"Doctor-patient confidentiality, Jon," said Stephen quickly, grabbing for the flowers.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon tossed the books into the back seat and stuck the keys in the ignition, but didn't switch on the engine. Stephen, hopping in on other side, was too fixated on the bouquet to notice anything amiss.  
  
"Stephen," prompted Jon gently, "how do you feel?"  
  
"Dunno," mumbled Stephen out of the corner of his mouth, brushing a blue-violet petal with his thumb. "How is a...a sexual trauma victim _supposed_ to feel?"  
  
"She came down on you pretty hard in there, huh."  
  
Stephen managed a facial shrug.  
  
"Listen, Stephen, she's the expert, but that doesn't mean she knows exactly what's going on in your head. Don't think of her as an authority telling you what to do, all right? She's just a resource you can use to help figure this out. Ditto for the books."  
  
"You don't have to tell _me_ not to listen to books, Jon."  
  
"I guess not," admitted Jon with a fleeting smile. "I do think you should check them out, though."  
  
"Jon?" Stephen's voice had gotten small and frail. "Will you—will you read them with me?"  
  
"Of course!" Jon put a hand on Stephen's shoulder, rubbing the tensed muscle through the silk of his shirt. "Of course I will. I would love to. But that brings me to one other thing I need to ask. You know our next vacation is in two weeks, right?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well, Tracey and I have been talking, and we both think we should put off doing anything until then."  
  
Stephen let out a sigh of relief and slumped in the bucket seat, palpably relaxing under Jon's touch. "We can put this off as long as you want, Jon."  
  
"You know that means the visits too, right?"  
  
"Well, obvi—what?"  
  
"The visits. I don't think we should try to have any more while the shows are on air."  
  
"You're afraid I'll have another meltdown," said Stephen bitterly.  
  
"Even if you don't—it's a constant struggle for you, isn't it? Self-control, I mean. Trying to hold those things off."  
  
"Ye-es, but I can _do_ it. I've been doing it forever."  
  
"I know, but you shouldn't _have_ to. Especially now, when you have so much else to deal with. Give yourself two weeks without the pressure."  
  
Stephen didn't move, staring down into the bouquet in his arms. "You promise it'll only be two weeks?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"And you won't...." Stephen swallowed hard. "In two weeks, you won't just say 'only two _more_ weeks,' right?"  
  
Jon's breath caught in his throat. Leaning over to Stephen's side of the car, he wrapped his arms around the other man and held him tightly.  
  
"Public place, Jon!" hissed Stephen, trying to push him off without spilling the flowers.  
  
"Empty parking garage," countered Jon, not letting go. "Also, tinted windows."  
  


  
After a long moment, Stephen stopped struggling.  
  
"Now, Stephen, listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?"  
  
Slowly, Stephen nodded against his shoulder.  
  
"I'm not using this as a sneaky roundabout way of leaving you," said Jon. "I'm not leaving you at all. I love you."  
  
"Still?" whispered Stephen, voice cracking.  
  
" _Yes._ I still love you, and I'm never going to stop loving you. I promise."  
  
Not until Stephen's shaky breath had evened out did Jon ease his hold.  
  
"It's only two weeks," he said gently. "Water your flowers. Work on those anagrams. Take care of George. Get some rest. It'll fly by before you know it."


	14. Two Weeks, On Notice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: the aforementioned [anagram toss](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-august-9-2007/anagrams); [the YouTube lawsuit](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-august-16-2007/youtube-trial); [self-determination](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/183247/august-21-2007/the-word---self-determination).

**August 12, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
You learned a lot about people from how they treated children. Which was why Sandra, who had run the nursery for eight years now, was privately convinced she knew most of the congregation about as well as the priest, if not better.  
  
Some parents showed up almost before the service was over, scooping up their infants and grilling the attendants for every detail of the child's morning. Others were harried, distracted, the kids one more errand to take care of. Still others were relaxed enough to make cheerful conversation, sometimes with an eye on their baby all the while.  
  
Normally these were the mothers, but once in a while a father took the role. Take Colbert, for example. His wife hadn't been coming to services (there was some _tsk_ ing about this, and a vague suspicion that that woman thought she was too good for them, but it wasn't to be held against Colbert himself, and anyway he _did_ make such generous donations), so he was the one who appeared at the door, scanned the room until he spotted little George, and nearly flew over to the crib.  
  
After several minutes of cooing adoration on Colbert's part, Sandra made her way over. "He's a joy, that one," she offered pleasantly.  
  
"Of course he is," agreed Colbert, not taking his eyes off the baby now cradled in the crook of his arm.  
  
Something about his bearing, the glow in his eyes and the curve of his smile, made Sandra act on instinct. "Mr. Colbert, have you ever thought about teaching Sunday school?"  
  
"Oh, no," said Colbert absently, now moving his finger towards George's nose until the infant went cross-eyed following it. "Children are a menace to society and should be kept down at all costs."  
  
With that, he strolled out, too busy cooing at George to even say goodbye.  
  
Okay, maybe Sandra didn't understand people as well as she thought.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 13, 2007  
Monday**  
  
"Fred Thompson: Forms No Depth. Barack Obama: Osama Bin Laden."  
  
"Stephen, uh, I still don't think that last one...."  
  
" _The Daily Show With Jon Stewart._ Want to take a guess?"  
  
"Uh, Stephen, if this is the one I heard before, I don't know if—"  
  
"With Joy, Withdrawn Host Elates."  
  
"What? You're kidding."  
  
"Nope. Double-check it yourself if you want."  
  
"That's _awesome._ "  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"Hey, have you gotten anything for 'Dr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert, D.F.A.' yet?"  
  
"No. Well, nothing good. You've gotta be able to separate the junk from the meaningful ones. Speaking of meaning, I think my son is destined to be the next Will Ferrell."  
  
"How do you figure that?"  
  
"If you rearrange the letters in 'George William Colbert', you get 'I Relit "More Cowbell" Gag'."  
  
"That's fantastic. We'll see you in a minute, Stephen."  
  
"Oh, and, Colbert Nation—continue your 'Noble Traction'."  
  
"Stephen Colbert, everybody. Join us tomorrow night; Denis Leary will be our guest; here it is, your Moment of Zen!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 15, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
Rain-brushed lamplight dappled across his sheets, but in his mind, he was in the office.  
  
_He didn't look up as the door opened. "I'm busy here. The Nation can't lead itself, you know."  
  
The lock on the door clicked shut.  
  
He looked up to see a jet black suit and silver tie. "Oh—Jon! I don't have a lot of free time, but I guess if it's you, I can set aside a few minutes."  
  
"Oh, I think it'll take longer than that," said Jon, striding on polished wingtips across his floor. "Get up."_  
  
It was a favorite fantasy, one that he had played and replayed in dozens, maybe hundreds of variations.  
  
_He rose. "What do you want?"  
  
Wordlessly, Jon crooked a finger at him.  
  
He caught his breath. He felt frozen, hypnotized, locked in a tractor beam emanating from those unrelenting blue eyes; and when Jon beckoned again, he stumbled around the desk towards them.  
  
With the touch of two fingertips on his lapel, Jon stopped him. "Lie down."  
  
"What?"  
  
Using only a flicker of his eyebrows, Jon gestured towards the couch.  
  
All at once he was sitting on the cushions, about to stretch out over them when Jon stopped him. "Wait. Get your jacket off first."  
  
"Jon, I'm not sure I should...."  
  
"Off."  
  
He shrugged off his suit jacket and started to fold it properly; Jon lifted it from his hands and tossed it aside. "That's better. Now you can lie down."  
  
He did.  
  
"Shoes off."  
  
He kicked them away.  
  
"Now the tie."  
  
"Jon, please...."_  
  
(But Jon wouldn't _do_ that....)  
  
_"The tie. Faster."  
  
"Please don't make me do this," he whispered.  
  
And then Jon was leaning over him, palms shoving his hips into the couch. "Don't lie to me. I know you want this."  
  
"I—I don't," he stammered, even as he obediently fumbled with the knot, hips writhing against Jon's iron grip, every heartbeat filling him with a delicious pulse of heat—_  
  
(And Jon can't grip that hard either. He's not that strong.)  
  
_In the instant he was distracted, the fantasy changed.  
  
"You love this," purred new-Jon, licking his lips. "You don't even need the raise, you'd do this for free, you wanton little—"_  
  
(No—)  
  
_—he launched himself from the cushions and flipped Jon over, throwing him to the floor, relishing the sudden flash of surprise in his eyes, of fear—_  
  
(STOP—)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stephen landed flat on his stomach, the impact punching the air from his lungs.  
  
Flashes and curls of the fantasy licked at the edge of his mind as he struggled for breath. Not a memory, just a series of imaginary pictures that had somehow gone wildly out of control.  
  
He desperately wanted something to shout at, but he couldn't risk waking George.  
  
Grabbing his handy iPhone, Stephen composed a scathing message to the ACLU, and prayed it would tide him over.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 16, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
"Stephen! What've you got tonight?"  
  
"Hey, Jon. Ready to be deposed in this whole Viacom-YouTube lawsuit?"  
  
"Yeah, I saw they wanted us to testify, but I really haven't thought about it...."  
  
"Really? I've been drilling five hours a day for it! Here—I'll do you, right now."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I—"  
  
Stephen froze up, staring into the camera like a rabbit into headlights.  
  
"I—um—well—I mean—uh...."  
  
"Did you want to drill me for the deposition?" prompted Jon.  
  
"Yes! Yes, that's what I meant. That is exactly what I meant. There is no other way you could reasonably take that statement. I am going to..."  
  
He trailed off again.  
  
"...drill me?" repeated Jon helpfully.  
  
"No! I mean yes! I mean—"  
  
"Stephen—"  
  
" _What,_ Jon?"  
  
"—you realize this isn't going to make it to trial until 2009, right?"  
  
Stephen blinked several times. "It isn't?"  
  
"It isn't. So they're not exactly in a big hurry. No need to panic."  
  
"I wasn't panicking, Jon!" snapped Stephen. "I'm _fine_."  
  
"I understand. See you in a minute, Stephen."  
  
"This better not show up on YouTube!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 17, 2007  
Friday**  
  
"Hi, honey! Just wanted to check in, see how everything's going...."  
  
"It's all going fine," laughed Charlene on the other end of the phone. "How's Washington?"  
  
"Oh, you know, same old, same old," said Stephen nonchalantly, trying to act like he didn't still get that rush of awe and wonder every time he walked down the hallowed if slightly dingy halls of one of the Congressional office buildings. "Admired the scenery. Did some Better Knowing. Ate some crab cakes. How's George?"  
  
"You want me to put him on?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"All right. Just a second...."  
  
Stephen managed to wait a whole three seconds before starting. "Hi, baby boy! How are you? It's your daddy! Did you have a good day today? You didn't hit any developmental milestones while I wasn't there, did you? Because Daddy will be pretty cross if he misses one."  
  
A faint noise. Almost too small to hear.  
  
"Charlene!" yelped Stephen, nerves soothed only a fraction by the fact that she answered right away. "Was that a _sneeze?_ "  
  
"That it was."  
  
"He's sick?"  
  
"Just a little sniffly. Nothing to—"  
  
"I'll get on the next plane," interrupted Stephen, scanning the hotel suite frantically to gauge how quickly he could pack. "Why did I bring all this _junk?_ Stupid, stupid! I'll leave it all behind. Who needs it? All I need is ID—and a credit card—and the iPhone—why haven't they developed an iPhone app that books plane tickets when you shout at it yet? Don't they know—"  
  
"Stephen!" barked Charlene. "Sit down!"  
  
He was startled enough to obey in that instant, dropping automatically to the floor.  
  
"Now breathe. Are you breathing?"  
  
"Of course I'm _breathing_ ," snapped Stephen breathlessly. "Stop wasting my time, I need to—"  
  
"Then listen to me," ordered Charlene. "You're coming home tomorrow, just like you planned. George will be _fine._ "  
  
"He's _sick!_ He _needs_ me!"  
  
"He has the _sniffles_. They'll probably be long gone before you even get back. Come on, Stephen, you know kids can put up with much worse. Remember the winter when half the kids in our grade got bronchitis? Remember how your parents made you keep going to school when you were sick? And you got through that, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes, but I _hated_ it!"  
  
The words burst out in a near sob, of which Stephen was immediately ashamed. How had he _said_ that, how had that come from _inside_ him, when he _knew_ he was supposed to pull himself up by his own bootstraps and _shake it off, Col-bert, shake it off...._  
  


  
"Stephen..." stammered Charlene, clearly at a loss.  
  
"Dr. Moreau thinks I'm bipolar," blurted Stephen, still in that pathetic, childish voice that seemed to be talking in spite of his best attempts to shut it up. "She wants me on medication."  
  
"Oh..."  
  
Stephen gulped wetly. "'zat all you can say? 'Oh'?"  
  
"What do you want me to say?"  
  
" _Any_ thing!" A thin flame of frustrated anger coursed through Stephen's veins, helping his head clear. "It's a stupid idea, it's a great idea, you think all drugs are a scam, you think I should just be locked up and save everyone the trouble, _some_ thing!"  
  
"I don't think you should be locked up," said Charlene promptly. "I would never...Stephen, I love you, remember? And Jon loves you. And Tracey, well, Tracey still can't shake the fear that Jon's going to leave her for you, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care about you."  
  
"W-why would he leave _her?_ " choked Stephen. Sure, maybe Tracey didn't have an award-winning TV show, proper conservative morals, or, well, balls. But at least she wasn't... _damaged_.  
  
"He wouldn't," said Charlene firmly. "And nobody's leaving you, either."  
  
Stephen took a few shuddery breaths while he considered standing up. (He decided against it.)  
  
"But I think you should try the meds."  
  
"You _do_ think I'm trouble!" cried Stephen accusingly.  
  
"I think you're _in_ trouble," countered Charlene. "And I think if you have a chance at a life where you don't have a panic attack every time your son sneezes, you should at least give it a shot."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 18, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
"O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen."  
  
"May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require. Thereupon, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."  
  
Silently, in tandem with Father Ted, Stephen crossed himself.  
  
"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."  
  
"For His mercy endures forever," replied Stephen promptly.  
  
"Your sins are truly forgiven. Go in peace."  
  
"Thanks be to God," Stephen whispered.  
  
And he stepped out of the church into the afternoon sunshine, buoyed, however temporarily, by the peace and warmth that came from being in a state of grace.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 21, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
"Folks, WikiScanner is the sort of intrusive snooping _no one_ should be allowed to do—outside of our Justice Department. And it brings us to tonight's Wørd."  
  
The interns, planted in the seats as they always were during rehearsal (although slightly closer together than usual), clapped.  
  
Over the applause Stephen announced, "Self-Determination! Ladies and gentlemen, what I love about Wikipedia is that it lets democracy determine reality. If we all decide that there are five pints in a quart, that's objectively true!"  
  
_And A Bargain!_ added the bullet.  
  
"But now, WikiScanner threatens another concept that's even more American than democracy."  
  
_Obesity?_  
  
Stephen looked intently into the camera. "Self-invention. The idea that you can be whoever you want to be—whoever _you say_ you are."  
  
_It's Pronounced "Coal-Bare"_ , put in the bullet.  
  
"Now, you may come from generations of Connecticut blue-bloods..."  
  
_Coal-Bare!_  
  
"...and have gone to the finest prep schools out East..."  
  
_Not Coal-Burt. That's Wrong._  
  
"...but if you clear brush and talk with a Texas twang..."  
  
_I Don't Want To Be Wrong._  
  
"...you are a cowboy!"  
  
_I Don't Want To Be Bad._  
  
Stephen paused, tapping his pen against the desk and turning from the camera to glare at the interns. "You were supposed to clap there! How am I supposed to focus if you aren't paying attention?"  
  
_I Don't Want To Be Weak._  
  
"Great. Now I've lost my place."  
  
_I Don't Want To Be Scared._  
  
"And what are you all looking at?" demanded Stephen. "You're supposed to look at _me!_ "  
  
_Notice Me!_  
  
Nobody moved. Stephen followed their gazes to the nearest screen behind him.  
  
_Don't Leave Me Alone!_  
  
His mouth dropped open.  
  
The bullet, oblivious to the fact that the monologue it was supposed to accompany had stopped, went on. Points flashed in faster and faster succession.  
  
_I'm Scared  
  
I'm Weak  
  
I'm Bad  
  
I'm Wrong  
  
I Don't Deserve This  
  
I Don't Deserve You_  
  


  
"Jimmy, kill it! Kill it!" yelled Stephen, waving frantically.  
  
_Help Me  
  
Save Me  
  
Find Me_  
  
The whole sidebar winked out.  
  
Stephen held his breath, every sense on alert in case it came back. After a few heartbeats passed with nothing but himself on the screen, he turned and addressed the ceiling. "What the _hell_ was that?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Bobby! Jimmy! Somebody tell me what just happened!"  
  
"I don't know, Stephen," came Jimmy's voice through the speakers. "The text just sort of went haywire."  
  
"Well, _stop_ it! Put up the text that's in the script!"  
  
"That's what we always do," said Jimmy. "Sometimes it changes. You've never had a problem with it before."  
  
"It never did _that_ before! Fix it!"  
  
"I, uh, don't know how."  
  
"Figure it out!" shrieked Stephen. "And get it done before air!"  
  
"I'll try," said Jimmy, "but you should probably come up with something else to fill the time, just in case."  
  
Stephen rose, and shoved his chair forward so hard that it banged into the desk. "Fine!" he snapped, stalking towards the door. "I'll find something to put On Notice. And _everyone_ in the graphics department is officially Called Out until this gets fixed!"  
  
The disaster of the first act was ameliorated by his stunning performance in the second. If the Wørd had been a flop, the round of Formidable Opponent took its adroitly crafted hostility to a new high.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 22, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
Stephen sat at the kitchen table, twiddling his thumbs, while Charlene rattled around in the cupboards.  
  
"Nothing's happening," he declared at last. "Maybe I should take another one."  
  
"It's supposed to take a couple of weeks to build up in your system," said Charlene, who was doing her best to seem nonchalant about the whole thing, even though she had committed the entire What You Need To Know About Lithium pamphlet to memory. "And you need to start off with a low dose to make sure you can tolerate the side effects."  
  
Stephen muttered in indecipherable frustration, then shoved back his chair and stalked out of the kitchen without another word.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 23, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
"...with our good friend Stephen Colbert over at _The Colbert Report_. Stephen, my friend, how are you?"  
  
" _Fine!_ Why? What have you heard?"  
  
"Uh, nothing. That's why I asked."  
  
"Well, I'm fine. Perfect. Never better."  
  
"That's good. Looking forward to the vacation?"  
  
"I don't _need_ a vacation, Jon!"  
  
"I'm sure you don't, Stephen, but it's on the schedule, and your staff needs the break—"  
  
"I could do the show without them! It can't be that hard. You want me to prove it? Just say the word and I'll do it. Come on!"  
  
Ignoring Stephen's feigned protests, Jon shook his head. "No, Stephen. You're going on vacation with the rest of us. You can come back on the air in two weeks."  
  
"All right." Stephen threw up his hands. "Sorry, Nation. I'd love to stay with you, but the almighty Jon Stewart has declared otherwise."  
  
"We'll see you in a minute, Stephen."  
  
"Enjoy this while you can!" put in Stephen before the connection cut out.


	15. Let The Cleansing Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Oh, you're swinging in and out of clearness so fast. Your eyes blur and they come clear and you smile appropriately and you sit up and you blur second by second. Right? Can you feel that?_  
>  — _Splitting_ (Stoller, 1973)
> 
> Quotations are from _Back From The Brink: A Family Guide to Overcoming Traumatic Stress_ (Catherall, 1992) (although they're not necessarily in order, or broken up into the correct chapters). The importance of towels is explained in _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. Clips referenced: [Stephen on the Factor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QquTUR9nbC4).

**August 24, 2007  
Friday**  
  
They had planned to come over at six, and it was 5:52 when Jon pulled into the Colbert driveway.  
  
"Got everything, slugger?" asked Jon as his son climbed out of the car. The kids had ended up with clothing at both houses, and Maggie could share a lot of the toys that George wasn't interested in yet, but there were some things that Nate insisted he couldn't live without. He had been informed that he could bring as much as he could carry.  
  
"Got it, Daddy!" insisted Nate, hauling a bulging Spongebob backpack over his shoulder and an oversized plastic dump truck under his arm.  
  
Jon retrieved his duffel bag and the diaper bag, then turned to his wife. "How about you, honey?"  
  
"I'm good," said Tracey, balancing Maggie on her hip and slinging her own bag over her arm.  
  
The curtains were all drawn as they approached the front steps, and Jon was briefly worried; but before his finger had even reached the doorbell, the door flew open. "Come in, come in!" exclaimed Stephen.  
  
He ushered them across the threshhold, where they set down their bags and kicked off their shoes. Stephen pushed the bags out of the way, shoved the door closed, and locked it.  
  
Then he spun Jon around and embraced him tightly.  
  
Jon returned the hug, rubbing Stephen's back while Stephen's fingers dug into his shirt. He heard Charlene come down the stairs behind him, kiss Tracey on the cheek, and say hello to the kids. Stephen didn't move.  
  
Tracey touched Jon's arm, picked up his bag, and smiled. _I've got this._  
  
He returned the smile gratefully. _Thanks, babe._  
  
Within a few minutes the women, kids, and bags were all gone, leaving Jon with no other distractions.  
  
Stephen was still wrapped around him, and clearly had no intention of letting go any time soon.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"So I was thinking...."  
  
"Dangerous thing to do, Jon."  
  
"I know, I know. But it's going to help you."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
Stephen arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.  
  
They had retreated to the living room when Jon had admitted that his feet were getting tired, ending up together in one of the armchairs. How Stephen could manage to look skeptical with a side of derision when he was curled up in Jon's lap, Jon had no idea. Must have been another of his hidden talents.  
  
"Listen, have you gotten a chance to look at the books at all?"  
  
"No," sulked Stephen. "I was waiting for you."  
  
"Oh! Well, that's all right then. How would you feel about setting aside a bit of time, maybe every other day, to go through them? Say, however long it takes to read a chapter. Me reading, I mean. To you. And we can talk about things that sound familiar or helpful, or write down any questions and pass them on to the doctor. And if you start to feel worried or panicked, I can talk you through it."  
  
"You want to read to me," said Stephen dubiously.  
  
"Is that all right? I mean, you can read too if you want, obviously. I just don't want you to end up feeling alone, and I thought maybe my voice would help with that."  
  
Stephen rested his head on Jon's shoulder. "Okay."  
  
Okay? Just like that?  
  
_I must have said something right._  
  
"We should pick a room where you haven't had any flashbacks," continued Jon. "And, uh, it should have bigger seats than this one. What about the couch in the den?"  
  
"Nuh-uh. Had a nightmare there."  
  
He said it in a flat, deadened tone of voice; Jon began carding gentle fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "All right," he said soothingly. "Not the den, then. Where?"  
  
Stephen considered it. "Down in the basement," he said at last. "There's a little two-seater couch down there. It was going to go in the living room, until it showed up and I realized it doesn't match my red-and-blue monogrammed afghans."  
  
"Okay. The basement it is. And I think we should start after dinner. Tonight."  
  
Stephen didn't answer.  
  
"Hey," said Jon gently. "It's gonna be okay. We're going to get you through this, you hear me? I'm with you. Even when you're getting dragged off into flashbacks and nightmares, I'm with you." He put a hand over Stephen's heart and squeezed gently. "Anything I can do to make you feel safe, I'll do it."  
  
Stephen flinched. "Then—don't do that."  
  
Jon froze. "What? What?"  
  
Wordlessly, Stephen pushed the hand away from his chest.  
  
"Oh! Oh, of course. Did it—remind you—of something?"  
  
A nod.  
  
"All right. All right. I'll keep it in mind."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon had been more than a little nervous about how his idea would go.  
  
He had figured it would help if Stephen had some kind of structure to frame his experiences, naming the things he was going through and putting them in context. Apparently some of these authors had the same idea: the books were organized to provide exactly that structure. But he knew how easily Stephen could rocket into either iron denial or raw, unshielded pain; and, truth be told, he was terrified of provoking either.  
  
So it was both relieving and unnerving when Stephen sat beside him and listened to the first chapter with such perfect calm that Jon kept stopping to ask if he was paying attention.  
  
"What did I just say, then?" he asked, after the third time.  
  
"'If you have an impaired ability to feel self-esteem, you tend to find less and less lasting means of feeling all right,'" recited Stephen.  
  
Jon studied him for a moment, then looked back down at the page. Sure enough.  
  
"I'm _listening,_ Jon. Continue."  
  
"All right. 'You may fill your life with work or other accomplishments to feel good about yourself. As long as you're producing, you can feel okay.' Sounds like you. Or Charlene, for that matter."  
  
"I guess."  
  
"'Or you may surround yourself with people who make you feel better about yourself, whether they are admirers or people toward whom you feel superior.' Now that _is_ you."  
  
Stephen shrugged.  
  
"No, really! That's the whole theory behind the Colbert Nation, isn't it?"  
  
"If you say so, Jon."  
  
They went on like that until the end of the chapter, when Jon closed the book and set it down on the arm of the couch. "Stephen, I'm not sure this is working."  
  
Stephen brightened. "Then can we stop?"  
  
"Oh, no," said Jon quickly. "You're not getting out of this that easily. But—well, I know you're listening, but I don't think it's reaching you."  
  
"It's a _book_ , Jon. What do you expect?"  
  
"You can't dismiss it just because it's a book."  
  
"There's a lot of bad stuff in books, Jon."  
  
"I'm sure there is. But you can't ignore all of them because of that, or you'll be throwing the baby out with the bathwater."  
  
Stephen stared at him, aghast.  
  
"It's just an expression, Stephen!"  
  
"It better be," said Stephen warily. "I was going to ask you to help me give George his first real bath this evening, but now I'm not so sure I should let you."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"You have been _washing_ him, right?"  
  
"Of course I have, Jon," replied Stephen, pacing in the hallway and rocking the baby while Jon gathered supplies from the bathroom: washcloth, baby brush, no-tears shampoo. "Sponge baths, once or twice a week."  
  
He switched into a high-pitched, singsong voice. "Because George _will_ get dirty, won't he, even when all he does is lie around, but Daddy won't let him stay dirty for long, oh no!" George cooed; Stephen apparently took this as a sign of agreement. "That's right! But little George needs to learn how to take big-boy baths now, because in a few years he'll be running around and getting into big messes all on his own until his daddy teaches him how not to, and even then sometimes he'll have accidents, but Daddy will believe him when he says they aren't his fault, and will get him all cleaned up right away, yes he will, he won't make Stevie sleep in his own filth just to teach him a lesson he already learned, oh no—"  
  
"Stephen!"  
  
Stephen glanced up. "Yes, Jon?"  
  
Jon opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. He had only been half-listening, and Stephen looked so nonchalant—he must have heard wrong. "Uh, where's the towel?" he asked at last.  
  
"Tsk, Jon," chided Stephen. "You should _always_ know where your towel is."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Stephen frowned disapprovingly at him. "I can see _you're_ not going to be any help in giving him a proper geek education. And it's in the hall closet."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The supplies were piled on the kitchen counter and the sink filling with two inches of warm water before George was undressed. "Babies lose body heat quickly," Jon explained, "so he shouldn't be sitting around naked waiting for us to get ready."  
  
"I _know_ , Jon."  
  
"Oh, sorry."  
  
"It's okay, though," Stephen added a minute later. "I didn't actually find it out until a few weeks ago."  
  
"Really? How?"  
  
"Well, ah... _What To Expect The First Year_."  
  
Jon raised his eyebrows. "You know that's a book, right?"  
  
"Just put the water on, Stewart."  
  
At last the bath was ready, and Jon stood back to watch Stephen lower the baby into the water. He was gratified to find that Stephen didn't need to be told to carefully support George's head, or to move slowly, or to keep up a stream of soothing narration.  
  
Only when George began to whimper did Stephen hesitate. "Jon—!"  
  
"Keep going, Stephen. He's okay."  
  
"But Jon, he's crying!"  
  
"He's not hurt. He's just a little scared. Ease him all the way in."  
  
With a nod, Stephen laid George carefully on his back while Jon took over the soothing talk. Once the baby was safely laid down, Stephen kept one hand under his head and brought the other around to touch his little fist. George gripped his father's index finger, and his cries began to slow down.  
  
"That always helps," explained Stephen. "He calms down when he knows he's got me."  
  
"Oh, good," said Jon with a smile. "You hang on tight to your daddy, George, you hear? He isn't going anywhere. And neither am I."  
  
The baby looked at him with a kind of surprised stare. He had figured out that the unfamiliar sensation wasn't a threat, but apparently it was still _weird_.  
  
"Hey, Stephen, what's he going to call me? 'Godfather' is awfully formal. Should we fudge the issue and go with 'Uncle Jon'?"  
  
Stephen shrugged. "Dunno." He frowned, then asked, with careful nonchalance, "Say, not that this is our situation or anything, but just offhand, do you happen to know what gay couples have their kids call them?"  
  
"Depends on the couple," replied Jon. "I know some guys just use different forms of 'Dad'—like, one father is 'Daddy' and one is 'Papa'...."  
  
"Not Papa," said Stephen promptly.  
  
"All right." Jon paused. "But isn't that what you call—"  
  
" _Not_ Papa."  
  
If there was any meaning behind that, this was not the time for Jon to push it. "All right. I'll ask around, get some ideas. We can figure it out later."  
  
"Good idea." Stephen switched to the soothing baby-talk tone. "Got that, George? We'll figure out what you get to call Jon. Tracey can just be 'Aunt Tracey', don't you think? Sure you do. Now you're going to have to let go, because I can't clean you up if I don't have a free hand, okay? Nothing to be scared of. I'm just going to move my hand...."  
  
He pulled his finger out of George's grip. Immediately George whimpered.  
  
"All right, never mind that then." Restoring the hand to its former position, Stephen looked helplessly up at Jon. "Now what?"  
  
Jon held up the washcloth. "I'm on it."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Eventually the baby had relaxed enough that he would allow Stephen's hand to be removed, but by that time he was all clean anyway.  
  
Jon stepped aside while Stephen lifted George out of the water and set him down on the clean fluffy towel. "There you go. All done," he cooed, wrapping it around George and then using corners to dry him off bit by bit. "That wasn't so bad, was it? You got through that just fine. And next time it'll be easier, and easier, until it isn't scary at all. You'll see." Wrapping his arms around the bundled-up George, Stephen lifted him into the air. "What a good boy you are!"  
  
The water was draining out of the sink and Jon was gathering up the supplies when Stephen gasped. "Jon, _look_ ," he breathed in wonder. "He's _smiling_ at me, Jon!"  
  
Fully prepared to say "It's just gas," Jon turned around.  
  
There was no mistaking it. George's mouth was open in a wide toothless baby smile, one that dimpled his cheeks and put sparkles in his eyes.  
  
And opposite him, Stephen's face had lit up as if a cloud had broken and the sun burst through.  
  


  
"Yes, you are!" intoned Stephen in his singsong baby-talk voice. "You're smiling, George! Because you are the most perfect wonderful lovable baby in the whole wide world!" He laughed, pulling George close until they were nose to nose. "Yes, perfect and wonderful and lovable, that's what you are. George, oh George, you make me so happy."  
  
Jon left them together and went upstairs to put away the bath things; when he came back down, Stephen had made it to a chair in the living room, still gushing at George and getting happy gurgles in return.  
  
Leaning over the back of the chair, Jon murmured, "I'll be in the den if you want me."  
  
Then he went off to track down clips in which Stephen had talked about O'Reilly.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 25, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
"Stephen, are you _sure_ you're listening?"  
  
"Blah blah spontaneous emotional reaction blah blah personality shuts down blah blah emotionally numb," recited Stephen, beckoning Jon with the gesture he would have used on a slow teleprompter. "I'm not _numb_ , Jon."  
  
"Not most of the time," agreed Jon. Not on air, and certainly not with George. And yet. "But, uh, you do shut down on me sometimes."  
  
"If you say so." Stephen beckoned again, not even looking in Jon's direction as he did so. "Movin' on...."  
  
"Stephen, you're doing it _right now_. Treating me like I'm one of your cameras, or something."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Jon." Whipping off his glasses one-handed, Stephen squinted at the page. "This is plenty...'close and comfortable'. And why would I 'feel particularly vulnerable' right now?"  
  
Jon closed the book and put it aside.  
  
Stephen visibly relaxed.  
  
_You're afraid,_ thought Jon. _Everything you've told me, and you're still convinced that if you open yourself up to this conversation, something will come out that you don't want to face. Or something that you don't want me to hear._  
  
For some reason the instructions for bathing a baby flashed through his mind. _Hold on to him carefully. Ease him in. It's scary for him, so he'll cry, but it isn't hurting him, so don't worry. Just make sure you're supporting him. Talk soothingly until he calms down._  
  
On a sudden impulse, he cupped Stephen's face in his hands, turning the other man to face him.  
  
Stephen gasped and shut his eyes.  
  
"You're scared," said Jon. "Scared of what you feel, and scared of what you've done, and scared of what might happen. But you're safe right now. You're safe."  
  
_Most importantly, never leave him alone, not even for a minute. He can drown in seconds in as little as an inch of water._  
  
"Because if anything happens, I'm right here." He tucked a wisp of dark hair behind Stephen's ear. "You can lean on me. I'll listen, I'll help you, I won't let you go too far, and I won't abandon you. I know you're scared. Fight it! Let me help you fight it!"  
  
Stephen's eyes slid open—but only halfway. Jon froze, transfixed, as one of his hands was pulled gently down until the fingertips brushed Stephen's lips.  
  
When the other man spoke, it was low, sultry. "Oh, I'll let you do more than that."  
  
With one last smouldering look in Jon's direction, he lowered his lashes and drew two long fingers into his mouth.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He ran his tongue along the skin with the easy skill that comes of long practice.  
  
Jon's hand twitched against his mouth, and he smiled.  
  
He wasn't _good_ , not in the least; but he was good _at this_.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
For a moment Jon was struck dumb.  
  
"S-Stephen?" he squeaked at last, partly because he had no idea how the hell you were supposed to address a man putting on that kind of amazingly erotic display, and partly because, well, crazy as it sounded, he suddenly wasn't _sure_....  
  
With calculated gentleness his fingers were released, the air cool on his damp skin as it left a shining trail down Stephen's chin.  
  
"Jon," said the other man solemnly, "I'm whoever you want me to be."  
  
Jon's heart clenched. "That's what you said when you visited the _Factor_."  
  
Stephen ( _or was it Tyrone_ ) raised his eyebrows. "So?"  
  
"'So'? So—I'm not him!" Jon shook off the other man's grasp with sudden vehemence. "Forget about what I want! What do _you_ want?"  
  
In an instant all the easy confidence in Stephen's face scattered, leaving a look of utter confusion. "What?"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"What do _I_ want?"  
  
"Th-that's right."  
  
Stephen's face twisted with agitation as Tyrone thought about it.  
  
Then he said, "I want _you_ , Jon."  
  
In a sudden blur of motion he shoved Jon's headrest back with his hands while pushing the footrest out with his heel, so that all at once Jon was flat on his back with Stephen leaning over him.  
  


  
"I want you," he repeated. "I want you. I want to lick you and suck you and touch you and taste you. I want to stroke every inch of you and I want to tease you until you beg and then I want to make you gasp and whimper and moan—"  
  
Without warning he _changed_ , shoulders slumping, eyes widening, voice going from low and sultry to high and almost childish—  
  
" _—and I want to fall asleep next to you and I want you to hold me when I wake up and I want you to pet my hair and tell me it's going to be okay and I want you to make my nightmares go away—_ "  
  
He switched back without missing a beat; Jon had never been in the studio for a round of Formidable Opponent, but in person it must look something like this—  
  
"—and I want you to do it all to me and then I want you to hold me down and invade me and I want you to leave me bruised and raw and spent _and I want to follow you around and I want you to buy me presents and I want you to watch me and clap for me every night_ and I want you to bend me over my desk and pound me like a cheap side of meat _and I want you to praise me when I'm good and I want you to forgive me when I'm bad_ and I want to make you scream without this voice in my head telling me that I'm dirty _and I want to be near you without being told that I'm a nuisance_ and I want to stop feeling guilty _and I want to stop feeling scared!_ "  
  
He broke off, out of breath, chest heaving.  
  
And then his expression changed once more as he stared down at Jon, a look of horror spreading across his face.  
  
"Stephen?" whispered Jon again.  
  
"Did he hurt you?" breathed Stephen, a flash of wildness in his eyes. "Because if he hurt you, I will _kill_ him."


	16. He Wants Me To Want You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _There is a part of my life so dark and terrible that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life._  
>  —the Rev. Ted Haggard
> 
> Clips referenced: [On Notice boards](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/25262/november-16-2005/on-notice-dead-to-me---juan-gabriel); [Dennis Kucinich](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/103731/october-01-2007/on-notice---dennis-kucinich); [taking out a hit](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182997/may-23-2007/threatdown---pellicano-); [the Singing Senators](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-may-31-2001/singing-senators). Alludes to the events of [this fic](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/28850.html) (spoilery for the chapter). On a side note, Stephen's grudge against the E Street Band is totally because of Jon's crush on Springsteen.

**August 25, 2007  
Saturday  
(continued)**  
  
It was Jon's turn to be locked in an embrace, head tucked against Stephen's chest, Stephen's arms wrapped tightly around him. He wasn't quite sure whether he was being shielded or used as a security blanket.  
  
"It's okay," he ventured. "I'm okay. Nobody hurt me, Stephen."  
  
"Oh thank God," gasped Stephen, breath hot on Jon's hairline. "I—I was afraid—"  
  
"Nothing to be afraid of." One of Jon's arms was firmly trapped by their bodies and the couch, but he managed to wrest the other one out and slide a comforting hand around Stephen's shoulder. "I don't know what you saw, but there's nobody else here. It's just us."  
  
"But it's not," whispered Stephen.  
  
"Not—? I don't understand."  
  
"Not—just us." Stephen choked and pulled him closer. "Jon, that—that wasn't _me!_ Do you understand that? That wasn't Stephen Colbert of _The Colbert Report_. That was—that was _Tyrone_ , or—or I don't even _know_ who—I wasn't saying it, I wasn't controlling it! And that's what I'm holding back—all the time—every day. I try to keep it in line, but it's hard, Jon. It's so hard."  
  
Jon fought to keep his body from tensing as his mind raced. He had done some reading of his own over their two-week mostly-separation, jumping from symptom to symptom and syndrome to syndrome with no particular goal; and this was starting to sound familiar.  
  
On the other hand, if he hadn't taken it all with a grain of salt, he would have concluded that Stephen suffered from half the contents of the DSM. No need to jump to conclusions. Not yet. This could all be explained just as easily by PTSD with heavy splitting, and an extra helping of denial.  
  
"You think this is black and white, don't you?" he murmured. "Either you're in complete control of these desires, or they're running wild and taking you to places you don't want to go."  
  
A tremor ran through Stephen's hands; he latched them together and braced them against the small of Jon's back. "I _know_ that's how it is. You heard what—what Tyrone wants to do."  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
"I'm not a cheap side of meat, Jon."  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"I don't want to _be_ one, either."  
  
"And you don't have to be," soothed Jon. "Sex doesn't have to work like that. You can let this stuff out in moderation, without having it take over."  
  
"Compromise-hugging liberal," grumbled Stephen, more out of habit than with any particular malice. "Pick a side. We're at war."  
  
Jon shook his head, at least as much as he could while it was more or less pinned. "Your war's long over, Stephen. You're allowed to stop fighting it now."  
  
Stephen's reply was slow in coming. "You think this is still part of the PTSD."  
  
"That's the idea."  
  
"So—can we make it go away?"  
  
Jon leaned into Stephen's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his aftershave and whatever it was that kept his collars so impossibly stiff. "We can make it easier," he murmured. "You're not the first person who's gone through this. There are other people who have been here, and dealt with hard times, and come out all right in the end. That's the whole idea behind these books. Can you at least give them a chance?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 26, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
"'Often,'" read Jon, sitting with the footrest swung out and the book propped against his knees, "'this unpredictable switching-off of empathy is accompanied by rage attacks. Your loved one can abruptly change from treating you as a support to behaving as though you're the source of all his problems.'"  
  
"I don't do that," snapped Stephen, then remembered his resolution to be listen, just this once, just a little. "Do I do that?"  
  
Jon raised his eyebrows. "Stephen. A brick could figure out that you're a very angry person. It wouldn't even have to be a particularly smart brick."  
  
"Well, I know _that_. But it's only because there are so many things to get angry about."  
  
"Yeah, I hear you—but do you ever get mad at something without a reason? Or get angry first, and then find something to focus it on?"  
  
This was ridiculous. Stephen had excellent reasons for being angry. Attacks on his politics, attacks on his faith, attacks on his person; not to mention dangers posed to hard-working Americans, which made him mad at everything from pant cuffs to the black hole at the center of the galaxy, both On Notice and rightly so.  
  
He couldn't remember why exactly he had been mad at the E Street Band, but then he had taken them Off Notice, so they didn't count.  
  
Of course, Fabergé eggs were still On Notice, and he couldn't remember the reason for that either—but it must have been a good one, right? Right? He didn't just do things for no reason!  
  
Unless. Unless the PTSD was the reason. If Fabergé eggs hadn't actually done anything wrong, they had been unfairly victimized, but it didn't make him a bad person. Just a PTSD person. He could work with that.  
  
"Maybe I do that," he said slowly. "Maybe sometimes. Maybe I don't need to be angry at Fabergé eggs and lattes and 'business casual'. But Dennis Kucinich deserves everything he's gotten."  
  
"Why, what did he do?"  
  
"He refused to come on my show, Jon."  
  
"Well, I can see how that would upset you."  
  
Stephen peered at him with sudden suspicion. "Are you humoring me?"  
  
"No!" exclaimed Jon, then let slip a sheepish half-smile. "...Maybe a little."  
  
"Well, stop it!" exclaimed Stephen. "Why would you do that?"  
  
Did he think Stephen couldn't handle the truth? Or that being made angry was somehow hard on Stephen's fragile delicate soul? Or—  
  
"Because sometimes when I don't, you focus the anger on me," said Jon. "And sometimes I don't want to deal with that."  
  
Stephen stopped cold. Jon was looking away, biting his lip, idly flipping the corners of the unread half of the book with his thumb.  
  
"You can't," protested Stephen at last, shakily defiant, hunching his shoulders. "You can't act like you've never done anything wrong, like I never have any good reason to be mad at you."  
  
"Of course not. Sometimes I clearly screw up. And then sometimes you try to take out a hit on me because I didn't say 'hello' to you in the hall."  
  
"I was _drunk!_ And that was _years_ ago! Don't use that as an excuse for being too much of a coward to take me on!"  
  
At that, Jon actually laughed. "Yesterday I was perfect and irresistible, and today I'm a coward? Stephen, listen to yourself! Things that can make you this angry don't just suddenly materialize out of thin—"  
  
Dropping off mid-sentence, he did a double-take. "Oh. _Oh._ You're splitting _me_."  
  
"What are you talking about? I can't rip up _your_ memories."  
  
"No, I mean—in your own head, you're splitting me up. You don't see all of me at once, do you? Either you see only the parts you like, and admire me, or you see only the parts you hate, and chew me out."  
  
"I don't—!"  
  
Again Stephen broke off, staring hard at Jon's face. Who was he yelling at? The cowardly cut-and-runner with whom he was rightly furious, or the gentle friend he loved?  
  
In the next instant his head exploded with white noise, and he crumpled with a gasp, fingers pressing into his painfully buzzing temples.  
  
"Stephen?" Jon's voice, soft but closer than it had been, hovering at his side. "Stephen, are you all right?"  
  
_You have never loved...._  
  
"I don't—I don't know," moaned Stephen. "It hurts—it's like there are bumblebees in my head—"  
  
Jon put a tentative hand on his knee. "Easy, Stephen. Stay with me."  
  
Stephen tried to take deep breaths. He could make this work out. Yes, he was angry at Jon, but that didn't mean it was Jon's fault. If this was some kind of PTSD thing, it could be all in his head, although not his fault either. So it didn't have to get in the way of loving Jon.  
  
Sure enough, the white noise was fading.  
  
"Keep reading?" asked Stephen in a small voice, hoping they would get to a section that talked about how he could totally feel love, and certain voices didn't know what they were talking about.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 27, 2007  
Monday**  
  
Tracey pushed Charlene back onto the pillow, one hand roaming under her blouse, and tried not to feel guilty about how _good_ it felt. And then she tried not to feel guilty for thinking about Jon when her tongue was in Charlene's mouth, never mind that it was in the context of wondering whether she could ever convince him to wear something black and lacy.  
  
The arch of Charlene's foot traced up the back of her bare calf, and she was almost on the verge of actually letting go and enjoying the sensation when Charlene twisted her head away with a gasp. "Hang on—I think I'm lying on something."  
  
Still on her back, she craned her neck and tried to grope under the pillow; Tracey slid a more agile hand past her awkwardly bent elbow and fished around until she lit on a folded piece of paper.  
  
"Got it," she murmured, sliding it out and squinting at the name above the fold. "Hm. Looks like it's for you."  
  
She settled down on the bed, arm hooked around Charlene's hips, while the other woman unfolded the paper. Though she tried not to read what was probably a private note, Tracey did catch a glimpse of carefully penned letters, printed at a ninety-degree angle to the faint blue lines.  
  
A moment later, Charlene crumpled the note in her fist. "There's something I have to take care of. It'll only take a few minutes, all right?"  
  
"What is it? Can I help?"  
  
"Don't worry yourself about it." Kissing her on the temple, Charlene wriggled out of her embrace. "I'll be back before you know it."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**August 28, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
"Hey, Stephen, how much do you know about Larry Craig?"  
  
The four adults were gathered around the breakfast table, passing sections of the _Times_ between them. At the moment Stephen had the business section, Charlene arts, Jon sports; Tracey, who had spoken, was holding the front page.  
  
Jon grinned. "You asked the right guy."  
  
"You certainly did!" said Stephen brightly. "Larry Edwin Craig, born in Midvale, Idaho on July 20, 1945. He's been in the Senate since 1991 and a member of the Board of Directors of the NRA since 1983. He graduated from the University of Idaho, Delta Chi. His wife's name is Suzanne, and they have two sons, a daughter, and nine grandchildren."  
  
Tracey blinked. "Can you do that with _everyone_ in Congress?"  
  
"Oh, no. Just the Singing Senators."  
  
"The who?"  
  
Stephen groaned theatrically. "Why has nobody outside the fan club heard of the Singing Senators? They're _only_ the greatest congressional singing group _ever!_ "  
  
"To be fair, Stephen, they did break up in 2000," pointed out Jon. "He was pretty upset about it," he explained to Tracey. "He's a fan."  
  
"They're making a comeback, though!" exclaimed Stephen. "They had a performance in June! With all the original members except Jim Jeffords, because he left the GOP, and the Singing Senators are obviously not bipartisan." He sighed. "It's a shame. He was the cute one."  
  
Tracey handed Jon the paper. "Um, maybe you should tell him."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
By the time Jon had been through his email, skimmed the headlines, and leashed up the dogs for a walk, Stephen was still loudly voicing his disgust, his sense of personal betrayal, and his intention to have all his bootleg Singing Senators tapes incinerated.  
  
"That's going a little overboard, don't you think?" protested Jon after that last one, rubbing the heads of the impatient dogs while Stephen knelt before George's stroller and rubbed sunscreen on the baby's nose.  
  
"They might have secondhand germs on them," declared Stephen, rising stiffly.  
  
"Stephen, please, relax. Your concert bootlegs are not going to have public-toilet cooties."  
  
"You never know, Jon!" cried Stephen. "I don't even want anything _associated_ with—with that sort of place! You wouldn't know who else had been there, you wouldn't know what kind of germs were floating around, anyone could look under the stall divider and see the extra feet, and even if they didn't they'd be able to _hear_ you, and if you find a place deserted enough that you won't be caught it's probably for a good reason, there's rust on the fixtures and dirt on the floors and graffiti on the walls, you can't avoid it because there's barely enough room for the two of you as it is, and half the time one of the toilets is blocked up so it stinks and you can't avoid that either, it's one of the most revolting things I've ev—"  
  
He caught his breath mid-syllable.  
  
"...Oh," said Jon.  
  
The silence lasted until Monkey put his head over the side of the stroller and sniffed, drawing a squeal of astonishment from its occupant.  
  
Quick as a flash Stephen dropped to his knees, bared his teeth at the bull terrier, and _hissed_ like an angry cat.  
  


  
"Whoa, hey, Stephen, easy there!" exclaimed Jon, as Monkey stumbled backwards and whined in confusion. "Let's just get moving, okay? Burn off a little of that excess tension."  
  
He opened the door and shooed the dogs out; Stephen shook himself, straightened up, and followed with the stroller in their wake.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Do you think we should talk about it?"  
  
"We don't need to talk about it."  
  
"Well, do you _want_ to talk about it?"  
  
Stephen had thought that the way he was pacing hard enough to wear a hole in the basement carpet would have been enough of an answer. "What is there to _say_ , Jon? It's a terrible thing and there's no excuse. End of story. Movin' on."  
  
"It's not that bad," protested Jon from the couch. "I mean, yeah, it's not fun for the guy in the next stall down, but are you telling me you don't understand why it happens?"  
  
Stephen huffed with nonspecific disapproval. "Explain."  
  
"Well, if you're afraid to be out, you can't exactly go cruising in places where somebody might catch you, right? Especially if you're a public figure, where any random person could recognize your face. So all that leaves is places where the other people don't want to admit that they were there either. Ergo, places that are...less than tasteful."  
  
"Disgusting places," corrected Stephen.  
  
Jon grimaced. "Yeah, all right. My point is, you don't need to hold that against him."  
  
"Who? Larry Craig or Tyrone?"  
  
"Um," stammered Jon. "Either, I guess."  
  
Stephen, who had stopped pacing to glare at Jon more effectively, looked away. "Maybe it's okay for Larry Craig," he allowed. "Maybe he has a good reason. But Tyrone...he...."  
  
_Loved it,_ purred a voice in the back of his head. _God, that was hot. You need to loosen up, Colbert. Knowing someone might be listening in is half the fun._  
  
Stomach churning, Stephen went back to pacing.  
  
"Is it a kink?" suggested Jon hopefully. "I mean, it's okay to have kinks. You just have to find safe ways to act them out...."  
  
"There _is_ no safe way to do this, Jon! Not with you! Not when, let's face it, you're getting kind of decrepit, so even if you _did_ decide to fight back for once, I—"  
  
He broke off, planting one hand on the nearest wall to keep him from swaying.  
  
"That's a bit of a leap, isn't it?" said Jon at last. "From 'I'm open to exploring some of your turn-ons' to 'I would let myself be raped'?"  
  
Stephen felt ill.  
  
"Stephen, please. Sit down."  
  
Pushing himself off from the wood paneling, Stephen made an unsteady line for the couch and sat pressed against the armrest, as far from Jon as possible. Jon rested a hand on the valley where the cushions met, not touching Stephen's hips but close enough to be reached for.  
  
"If anything tried to go over my limits like that, I would stop it. I promise. I'm a reasonable man, not a pushover." When Stephen didn't budge, he added, "But, listen, it can't be as bad as you think. You did sorta create, uh, Tyrone, remember? By splitting off those memories and experiences. And it's not like they're too far from your consciousness, or you wouldn't have been able to pull off that bit with the banana. I know the memories scare you, but maybe that part of your personality doesn't have to."  
  
"He's not _part_ of me," spat Stephen with sudden vehemence. "He isn't just a—a collection of desires that maybe used to be mine. He's— _deviant_ , and he's _twisted_ , and I can't _cooperate_ with someone like that."  
  
"You've said worse about me," Jon reminded him gently "And I think we get along all right."  
  
"That's different," snapped Stephen. "You love America. And—and you love George. But Tyrone and I don't have _anything_ in common."  
  
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the world tilted and flickered.  
  
Not an extended scene. Not the full emotional tsunami with surround sound and IMAX 3-D. Not even a complete disruption of reality, because he could still see the warm paneled basement through the flashes of sterile white linoleum and cold fluorescents. He grabbed for Jon's hand, and he could feel that too, even as he felt two seconds' worth of a warm body in an expensive suit pinning him roughly against the stall divider....  
  
"Stephen? Stephen!"  
  
Stephen's fingernails dug into Jon's skin. _This is solid, this is here, this is real._  
  
"J-Jon?"  
  
"Right here," whispered Jon. "Was it a flashback?"  
  
"Only a little one," said Stephen, not scared so much as dazed. The flashes were gone, but the afterimage of the man's face swam before his eyes, which still hadn't figured out what they were supposed to be focusing on.  
  
"Was it—bad? You look kinda...well...."  
  
In spite of everything, a smile carved a path across Stephen's face. Okay, it was slightly hysterical, but it was still the real thing.  
  
"Jon," he said, "it was cramped and scary and awkward and horrible, but it still made me the luckiest Singing Senators fan _ever_."


	17. The Traumatized Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So what kind of kid were you?"  
> "A little thug! And my father, recognizing the fact that I was headed for the penitentiary, put me into a very strict private school...they whipped me into shape there. Lot of discipline there...and for a kid like me, that's what I needed."  
> —Diane Sawyer [interviewing Bill O'Reilly](http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=3789148)
> 
> Clips referenced: [falling shelves](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/68867/may-09-2006/the-word---superegomaniac).

**August 31, 2007  
Friday**  
  
"We can skip this chapter, Jon."  
  
Jon shook his head. "I think we should read the whole thing."  
  
"But it's called 'The Traumatized Child'," protested Stephen, leaning over Jon's shoulder to peer at the page. "I didn't start...becoming Tyrone...until I was in college."  
  
Though he tripped over the words, it was still the most composed he had ever been when referring to his dissociation. Maybe the readings were starting to sink in.  
  
"That's still awfully young, Stephen," said Jon carefully.  
  
"This is talking about little kids. Six-year-olds, preschoolers. It's different and you know it."  
  
Jon grimaced. "Yeah, that's fair."  
  
"I had a happy childhood, Jon!"  
  
"All right, all right."  
  
"I mean, sure, I had some childhood trauma. Who doesn't? But it's nothing to get excited about."  
  
"Wait, what?"  
  
Stephen huffed in frustration. "A shelf fell on me when I was three. My dog abandoned me when I was fourteen. My big sisters used to force me to play dress-up with them. I got over it!"  
  
"Stephen—it's not that I don't believe you, it's just—I don't want to miss anything that might help."  
  
For a moment Stephen looked away, thunderclouds gathering in his eyes.  
  
Then, to Jon's great surprise, he shook them off and settled back against the headrest, looking almost cozy. "If you must."  
  
Figuring that was as much approval as he was going to get, Jon nodded and started to read.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen ambled up and down the nursery, rubbing his fussy son's back and singing soft nonsense songs under his breath.  
  
After about eight minutes of this, Jon's head poked into the room. "You want me to take a turn with him?"  
  
"Only for a minute," said Stephen warningly. "And don't make him listen to your singing."  
  
With a light giggle, Jon took George in his arms and slipped easily into the rhythm Stephen had left off, murmuring reassuring nothings as he circled the pastel-yellow room.  
  
_I want him to hold me._  
  
"Shut up," hissed Stephen in a whisper. He had known something along these lines was brewing ever since the reading, during which he had had the constant feeling that curious eyes were peering over his shoulder. "You get to sleep next to him. Don't be greedy."  
  
_It hurts...._  
  
"Shake it off, Col-bert!" _Should've known that chapter was a bad idea._ "You're a grown-up now. Act like it."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 1, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
"Ah! Here's the oregano."  
  
Charlene glanced down the aisle to where Jon was holding up a container. "That's Mediterranean oregano. I need Mexican oregano."  
  
"What's the difference?"  
  
"Well, for starters, they're completely different plants."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"They have similar flavors," explained Charlene, running her hand along the rack of herbs until it lighted on the one she was looking for. "And they're used in the same way. But Mexican oregano is better with spicy dishes, and I have a chili recipe which I want to try."  
  
"I see," said Jon. "Uh, here's the thyme. Does it matter what kind of thyme we get?"  
  
"That'll do."  
  
It wasn't until they reached the fruit aisle that Jon said, "Hey, can I ask you something?"  
  
So that was why he had offered to help with the shopping. Charlene picked up a plum, squeezing it gently. "Sure."  
  
"When Stephen was a kid, what was his life like?"  
  
"Why don't you ask him? Or has he forgotten too much to answer?"  
  
Jon flinched. "He's forgetting that far back?"  
  
"That's not what I mean," stammered Charlene quickly, embarrassed at her own snappishness. Had it really been getting to her that much? "He doesn't remember a lot of the things we did together, that's all. The secret high-five, or the coloring books we filled up, or...but it's kid stuff, nothing worth repressing."  
  
"Oh, good," sighed Jon. "Uh, sort of."  
  
"It's fine. Don't worry about it." Sure, their connection was different now, but what did she expect? Anyone would change over a couple of decades. Especially Stephen, who as far back as she could remember had been able to cycle through whole emotional arcs from day to day, sometimes from minute to minute. (Had he mentioned the bipolar meds to Jon? Could she bring up his mood swings without accidentally breaking his trust?)  
  
"Better avoid those," Jon added, as Charlene reached for a bunch of bananas. "Triggers."  
  


  
"Ah."  
  
She moved on to the apples, and had settled on several that were not only red but actually well-ripened, when Jon said, "One more thing?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"Why are you here? I mean, even if you were convinced Stephen had gotten over some of his, well, abraisiveness...how did you decide it was worth uprooting your whole life to come live with him?"  
  
Charlene smiled self-consciously. "It's not as big a deal as you probably think. I haven't lived in the same place for three years at a time since high school. I was about due for a move anyway when Stephen started making the international headlines."  
  
"Uh, wow," said Jon, scratching briefly under the brim of the baseball cap he was using as, if not the most effective disguise, at least a distraction for people who didn't look too closely. "That sounds really..."  
  
"Really what?" pressed Charlene when he hesitated. "Flighty? Unreliable? Commitment-phobic? Unable to see things through?"  
  
"Well, I was trying to decide between 'adventurous' and 'ballsy', but if you prefer...."  
  
Charlene winced. "...Oh."  
  
Jon slipped into his pensive-investigative-newsman face. "Hey, are you worried about being able to stay here? I mean, you didn't go to all the trouble of getting married just to take off again in a couple of years, did you?"  
  
Charlene had been trying not to think about that. "Maybe I won't leave this time. Or maybe three years from now Stephen won't need me as much. Does it matter? He needs someone now: to make sure he eats right, and keep him company when his dreams get bad, and take care of George when he's traveling. And I'm here now. That's the important thing."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Cocooned in sheets, Stephen hunched over his iPhone, turned up the volume, and made a furious effort to beat his Tetris score.  
  
When Jon stepped out of the bathroom, all lazy smile and pleasantly mussed hair, Stephen demolished another row of blocks with a satisfying crash before looking crossly at him. "You were _doing it_ , weren't you."  
  
Jon blinked. "Uh, yes. You didn't think I was going to stop, did you?"  
  
Stephen turned back to his game without answering, only to find the phone cheerfully blinking GAME OVER at him. For a moment he seriously considered drop-kicking the thing across the room.  
  
"Stephen...does it bother you? Is it triggering? I can try to be quieter, or do it when you're not around, or...."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Stephen, shrugging off the blankets. Of course it bothered him, and of course he wasn't going to _say_ so. As if he didn't understand that Jon was doing him a favor. "I'm just angry over you hogging the bathroom."  
  
Pushing past Jon (who, he couldn't help noticing, smelled so _good_ just then), he locked himself in, twisted the faucet until the walls echoed with the noise of rushing water, and quietly dug out the bottle of pills. He was up to two a day now: one morning, one evening.  
  
The childproof cap gave him more trouble than usual.  
  
Stupid shaky hands.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 2, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
"Mine!"  
  
Stephen had passed out on the living room couch as soon as he got home from church, and Charlene had gone off with Tracey to her book club, which left Jon the only adult on duty in a house with three kids and two dogs. It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.  
  
"Now, honey," he said, as patiently as he could, "you need to share...."  
  
The dogs were relatively easy to deal with; as long as they had been fed, they could spend many happy hours on their tethers in the backyard. Even better, Charlene had hung a bird feeder from one of the trees, which led to a daily epic struggle between the joyfully barking dogs and the birds who just wanted to eat in peace.  
  
"No!"  
  
He had managed to set Nate up at the kitchen table with a stack of paper and a box of crayons, so he ended up in the den with Maggie, George, and a selection of toys that should have been more than enough for the both of them.  
  
"All right," he sighed, handing his daughter the ball. "You can play with the ball, and George can hold Mr. Lion."  
  
"No!" yelled Maggie again, grabbing for the plush lion.  
  
"But you're playing with the ball," said Jon. "You can't play with Mr. Lion _and_ the ball at the same time."  
  
Surprisingly, the toddler failed to be swayed by his impeccable logic. "Mine!" she insisted again, clutching the ball and the lion close.  
  
"Okay, then." Jon raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. You can have the ball and Mr. Lion. George can hold on to one of your colored rings."  
  
"Mine!" cried Maggie, regardless of the fact that she hadn't stacked rainbow rings for months.  
  
George was starting to fuss, so Jon sped up the process, switching to a different toy the instant his daughter protested, until she had claimed enough things that they were nearly spilling out of her arms.  
  
"Well, would you look at that!" he exclaimed after a minute. "You can't hold any more toys. I guess you'll just have to let George hold Freddy." (Freddy was a blue rabbit. Obviously.)  
  
Naturally, Maggie tried to reach for Freddy; in the process, the ball slipped out of the precarious armful of toys and rolled away.  
  
"See?" said Jon.  
  
His daughter stared after the ball for a moment. Then her eyes began to fill with tears.  
  
_Red alert! Toddler meltdown on the horizon! Scared sobbing baby certain to follow!_  
  
"Okay, honey, don't cry. Don't cry." He caught the ball and pushed it back towards her. "Here you go. Okay?"  
  
The ball hit Maggie's foot and stopped. She looked up at him suspiciously.  
  
"In fact," said Jon, standing up, "you can have all the toys. George and I will just have to have fun on our own."  
  
He lifted George out of the swing seat from which the baby had been watching the proceedings, and carried him over to the stereo. Stephen's music, Stephen's music, Stephen's music, Stephen's music—aha! _Jack's Big Music Show_ , the soundtrack. Right after _Let Freedom Sing_ , by—well, would you look at that. By the Singing Senators.  
  
Jon didn't stop to look long. He opened the CD and loaded it as quickly as he could with a baby in one arm, then hit play and began to jiggle George to the theme song's bouncy beat ( _Come on, everybody, give your foot a tap! Come on, everybody, give your hands a clap!_ ). His hands were a bit full for clapping, but he did manage to tap his feet. George even stopped fussing as he tried to figure out what was going on. So far, so good.  
  
By the end of the song Jon was all-out dancing, and when he swung George carefully into the air the baby let out a shriek of laughter. He turned to Maggie, and noted with satisfaction that, although she was still clinging to the pile of toys, she was watching the dancers closely.  
  
"Do you want to dance with us, Maggie?" he prompted.  
  
She looked nervously down at her treasures.  
  
"It's okay," said Jon. "Nobody's going to take them. But you have to let them go if you want to dance."  
  
"No!"  
  
"All right." And Jon went back to dancing. (He wasn't good at it, but of course the kids had no way of knowing that.)  
  
By the end of the next song, Maggie was clearly torn. Jon decided to help her along. "Hey, do you think Mr. Lion would like to dance?"  
  
She didn't say 'no'. That was a start, at least.  
  
"Why don't you bring him over, and we can all dance together?"  
  
He didn't press the point any more, just started to swing to the next song. About halfway through, he realized that he had company, in the form of a wobbly eighteen-month-old and a stuffed lion. They fell down about once a minute, but always got back up.  
  
Jon smiled to himself. George smiled to whoever might be watching.  
  
The four of them kept this up for a good while, and some time during track 8 ("Bugs Are Really Swell") Jon actually got up the nerve to swing his hips.  
  
There was a burst of laughter from the doorway.  
  
Jon spun around in surprise, and felt himself turn red: Stephen was leaning against the door frame, cracking up so hard that he could barely breathe.  
  


  
"It's not _that_ funny," said Jon indignantly.  
  
"Jon," said Stephen, wiping away tears, "you can't dance."  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
"If you know you can't do it, then why are you trying?"  
  
"Uh," said Jon. "Because it's fun? And it keeps the kids entertained."  
  
Stephen frowned in mild disapproval, as if Jon had just earnestly explained that pirouettes cured cancer. Then he shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm gonna go make a sandwich."  
  
Jon tried to get back into the swing of the dance, but the moment was gone. On the other hand, it seemed to have worked; Maggie was thoroughly absorbed in Mr. Lion, letting Jon settle George in his playpen with the stuffed rabbit, and, for good measure, the stacking rings.  
  
No sooner was the baby out of his hands, though, than a shout echoed from down the hall:  
  
"HEY! Put that DOWN and BACK OFF!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon settled all three kids in for their afternoon naps, spending the extra time with Nate to make sure he dropped off without any extra anxiety. Not until the boy was peacefully asleep, and Jon himself had taken a few slow breaths, did he go down to the den, where Stephen had settled in with a club sandwich and a sulk.  
  
"You," said Jon firmly, "do not shout at my kids."  
  
Okay, it wasn't perfect calm, but it wasn't the rabid takedown his lizard brain had been rooting for, so that was a start.  
  
"But Jon!" protested Stephen, dropping the sandwich and pointing at the kitchen. "You saw what he did!"  
  
"Yes. I saw."  
  
"He drew all over my wall!" continued Stephen, as though making absolutely sure Jon hadn't missed this. "There are blue and orange stick figures having crayon Pokébattles on the bottom three feet of my kitchen!"  
  
"I don't care. You do _not_ shout at my kids."  
  
"But he can't do that! I know you're permissive and all, but you can't just let kids vandalize walls! Especially not _my_ walls!"  
  
"I am aware of that, Stephen, and I will _talk_ to him about it, and he will learn his lesson eventually. But blowing up at him like that isn't going to do anybody any good."  
  
"Sure it is! My father shouted at me all the time when I was that age. And I knew how to behave properly!"  
  
"You may have been well-behaved," countered Jon, "but how did you _feel_ about it?"  
  
"Terrible!" cried Stephen. "That's the whole point of being punished! It wouldn't work if it made you feel _good!_ "  
  
With a great effort, Jon reined in his anger before he snapped something he would regret. Stephen's expression was one of righteous anger with a mix of sincere confusion. _He isn't malicious. He just thinks this is the way things go.  
  
But he scared my son!  
  
And if you blow up at him, you will completely undermine your argument that shouting isn't the way to go._  
  
Trying his hardest to listen to the reasonable voice in his head, Jon sat down across from Stephen and ran his hands through his hair.  
  
"You do understand that he's three, right?" he began. "I mean, three-year-olds make messes. It's kind of a genetic imperative."  
  
(Hadn't Stephen been through this before? Could there be gaps in his memories of his older children? Or had he just left so much of the child-raising work with Lorraine that his kids' messes had been whisked away before he even saw them?)  
  
Stephen fidgeted. "Well, how are they supposed to grow out of that without any discipline?"  
  
"There's still discipline. It's just not the first step. First off, you've got to teach. Nate's never used any of our walls as a canvas before, so he had no way of knowing it was wrong. You could have just told him not to do it again. Sometimes that's all it takes."  
  
"And if it isn't?"  
  
"Then he gets to deal with the consequences. The next time he draws on a wall, he'll help me clean it off. It's an age-appropriate job, not overkill, and it demonstrates that the rule he's breaking isn't arbitrary."  
  
"But, Jon, that's so..." Stephen grimaced. "... _wishy-washy_."  
  
"Call it what you like," said Jon. "But it works. And without scaring the kid in the process."  
  
Bracing his elbows against his knees, Stephen let his gaze rest on his folded hands. At first he seemed to be just thinking it over; but then he glanced up at Jon with a kind of mingled hope and anxiety, like a little kid peering over the back of the couch to check whether the monster in the movie had gone.  
  
Jon figured he was going to ask a question, but after a few silent moments ticked by, he waved a hand cautiously in front of the other man's face. "Ste—"  
  
"But there must be _some_ times when it's okay to shout," interrupted Stephen, as if the argument had never paused. "I mean, what if he was in serious danger? What if I found him playing with Sweetness?"  
  
"Who's Sweetness?"  
  
Stephen froze.  
  
"Stephen? Who—or what—"  
  
"Sweetness is a Colt Detective .38 Special," said Stephen rapidly.  
  
Jon sat bolt upright. "There's a _gun_ in the house?"  
  
"In a safe!" yelped Stephen. "A very secure, very locked safe!"  
  
"A safe," echoed Jon. "Good. That's good. That—Stephen, if any of my kids are in _imminent physical danger,_ and yelling will get them out of it, then yes, you may yell. But that is the _only_ time. And the possible long-term danger of becoming graffiti-strewing delinquents does _not_ count. Is that clear?"  
  
Stephen nodded quickly. "Yessir."  
  
"Good." Jon rubbed his temples. "And when Nate wakes up, you're going to give him an apology."  
  
"But, Jon—!"  
  
"And," continued Jon, undeterred, "when Tracey and Charlene get home—does Charlene know about this 'Sweetness'?" Stephen's cagey look was all the answer he needed. "Great. Well, we're going to tell them."  
  
Stephen cringed. "Did I mention that the safe is very locked?"  
  
"You did," agreed Jon. "Which is why Tracey is not going to have both our heads. If we're lucky, we might even get off with being only _lightly_ maimed."


	18. It Takes A Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Let me ask you this: why were you happier when you were a kid? Because you didn’t know anything. The more you know, the sadder you get._  
>  — _I Am America (And So Can You!)_
> 
> Clips referenced: [slapping](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182583/january-25-2007/right-away-); anything involving [buzzing headaches](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/183016/june-06-2007/tip-wag---deep-purple).  
> 

**September 3, 2007  
Monday**  
  
When Tracey got back from work, her husband and the dogs greeted her at the door. "Hey, honey," said he (Jon, not one of the dogs). "Can I take your purse?"  
  
"Please."  
  
"You look tired. Long day?"  
  
"About usual." She crouched down to pull off her shoes and rub the dogs' heads affectionately. "Hi, boys! How was _your_ day? Were you good dogs?" To Jon she added, in her normal tone, "Two beloved family pets died. That's always rough. Especially when the kids are there."  
  
Jon made appropriate noises of sympathy while Tracey baby-talked the dogs some more. "Can I get you anything?" he continued at last. "Drink? Snack? Foot rub?"  
  
"Okay, what did Stephen do now? There's not another gun, is there?"  
  
"What? No! I just—"  
  
"Relax, dear. I'm teasing."  
  
Jon caught his breath. "Oh. Right."  
  
Shooing the dogs away, Tracey stood up. "Seriously, though, why the sudden surge of affection? Is everything okay?"  
  
"Well, I managed to get the Colberts doing kid duty, and...." He smiled sheepishly. "Does a man need a reason to pamper his favorite wife?"  
  
Tracey fairly glowed at him. "Well, I'm sold."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Once she was out on the den couch in shorts and a T-shirt, with a cool glass of wine in one hand and her legs across Jon's lap, Tracey felt much better. The relaxation kept up as the soreness eased from her calves.  
  
And then she realized that Jon's hands were working their way higher.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she said gently. "What are you doing?"  
  
He flushed. "Sorry. Too far?"  
  
"Have you asked Stephen that?"  
  
Charlene had said that she would be open to a certain level of marital fooling around even while they were supposed to be switched up, but Tracey had a feeling Stephen would be more possessive. Even if his own sex life with Jon was stalled in neutral.  
  
Sure enough, Jon lifted his hands from her legs. "You're right," he agreed reluctantly. "As usual. Uh, do you think the massage is okay, or should I stop that too?"  
  
"You used to give him footrubs before our arrangement, right?" reasoned Tracey. "Besides, it feels fantastic."  
  
Her husband turned adorably flustered. "Um. Thank you. I'll keep it up, then?"  
  
"Please do."  
  
His hands resumed their more innocent work; Tracey closed her eyes and allowed herself to start enjoying it again.  
  
Presently Jon said, "You know something?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I think every single person who knows about me and Stephen has had to give me advice now." His fingertips tapped a row of dots up her ankle as he counted them off. "Charlene. Dr. Moreau. Bobby. Tad too, although it was Bobby who got me to understand what he was saying. And now you."  
  
"To be fair, it goes both ways," remarked Tracey. "You were the one who talked me out of roasting him on a spit yesterday."  
  
"True, true. But I—I'm supposed to be the one he trusts, right? And I would have screwed this up a dozen times already if I didn't have the rest of you."  
  
"Anybody would. Stephen has way too many issues for one person to handle alone."  
  
"Yeah," said Jon quietly.  
  
He set into the massage once more, and Tracey relaxed into it for as long as she could.  
  
Then, eyes still closed, she murmured, "If you're going to end up breathing like that just from touching my feet, you and Stephen probably need to renegotiate."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Stephen? Do you think we could try something?"  
  
Stephen had spent a good chunk of the afternoon directing the latest Tek Jansen animated episode by phone with one hand, while alternately feeding, burping, and rocking George with the other. Maybe there was something he couldn't do, but at the moment he couldn't imagine what. "Anything you want, Jon," he declared, bouncing onto the bed.  
  
"Could we, uh, cuddle?"  
  
The mattress kept moving, but Stephen had stopped bouncing. _Oh. Right._  
  
"Not in a foreplay type of way," added Jon quickly. "Just, you know, to have some physical closeness that isn't about sex or panic attacks...."  
  
Before Stephen quite knew what he was doing, he had launched himself into Jon's arms, knocking him back onto the pillow.  
  
"I guess that's a yes?" panted Jon, once he had recovered his breath.  
  
With a squeak that he hoped Jon would understand as approval, Stephen burrowed against the comforting fur of his chest.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 4, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
"So...was it good for you?"  
  
"It was all right," allowed Stephen. They were back in the basement, back on opposite ends of the couch; but he could hardly let himself get too enthusiastic about the possibility of more contact.  
  
_But it was wonderful....  
  
Don't push your luck!_  
  
Jon was still talking. "Do you think we could try it here, then? Just to let your defenses down that little bit—not to the point of triggering, just to maybe stretch your comfort zone. I mean, you don't have to. Only if you feel safe enough. And you can tell me to stop any time you want."  
  
_He wants to,_ insisted the little-boy voice. _Let him! Please let him?  
  
Only if you shut up,_ thought Stephen furiously.  
  
_I'll be good!_  
  
"Jon. If we did...and if something went wrong...you wouldn't let yourself get hurt?"  
  
"I'll be extremely careful," promised Jon. "Of both of us."  
  
Blissful, unhelpful silence reigned in Stephen's head, except for a flutter of guardian-angel pinions over his shoulder.  
  
He took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. "Okay. We can try it. But only once. Just to see if it works. And if it doesn't, that's it. We stop. We don't do it again."  
  
"Of course. Whatever you want. Are you ready?"  
  
"G-go ahead."  
  
Jon nodded, but didn't move.  
  
Stephen, wondering what he had gotten himself into, felt his muscles draw taut, eyes snapping warily around the room as his skin was brushed by the ghosts of hundreds of other hands....  
  
He took a sharp breath, eyes snapping shut, when two of the hands became real.  
  


  
"Easy, Stephen," murmured Jon. "I've just got your shoulders, all right? Just my hands, on your shoulders. Is that okay?"  
  
Holding his breath, Stephen clutched at Jon's shirt for an anchor, and tugged at the worn fabric until Jon took the hint and pulled him into an embrace.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Easy, Stephen, easy. It's okay."  
  
Leaning shakily into his arms, Stephen murmured similar reassurances under his breath. "It's okay. Shh. It's just Jon. He's a friend."  
  
"That's right," echoed Jon, rubbing Stephen's back in slow circles. "It's just me. I've got you. Oh, Stephen, what are you afraid I'll do to you?"  
  
"I don't know!" stammered Stephen, fingers nearly scratching his skin through the T-shirt. "I don't know, it could be anything, there's no way to be sure...."  
  
"And it's the uncertainty that gets you," realized Jon. "No wonder you're always bouncing off the walls. If you move fast enough, you don't have to worry about what's going to catch up."  
  
Stephen twisted, so sharply that his elbow dug into Jon's gut, and frantically scanned the room behind him.  
  
"Figure of speech, Stephen!" gasped Jon.  
  
"...I knew that," sulked Stephen after a moment, before dropping back into that low self-soothing: "See? Nobody there. Shh now."  
  
He had collapsed into a defensive hunch, like a sharp-taloned bird of prey guarding a nest; Jon could feel the gnarled muscles under his hands. "Can I, uh, rub your shoulders? I won't do anything else. You've had enough freaking out for one day."  
  
With a sharp nod, Stephen scooted the rest of his body around, in a gradual arc this time, though he tried to crane his neck to keep his eyes on Jon even as Jon ended up looking at his bent back.  
  
It wasn't the first time Stephen's back had been turned on him—but as Jon dug his fingers into the knots, two thoughts hit him in quick succession. First, that he would very much like to lean forward and kiss Stephen's neck; and second, that this was a hell of a show of trust Stephen was giving him, and he had better not screw it up.  
  
As he might have guessed, a few moments of silence didn't help Stephen's tension, so Jon started talking. "Stephen, there's something I don't understand. You're anti-intellectual, you're anti-science, you're against learning in general—but you're afraid of not knowing things. How does that add up?"  
  
Sure enough, once there was something for him to react to, Stephen relaxed as he settled into the challenge. The imperiousness had even returned to his tone. "How _doesn't_ it add up, Jon?"  
  
"Well, uh, learning is how you come to know things...."  
  
"No, learning is how you come to _not_ know things."  
  
"...you lost me."  
  
Stephen's shoulders heaved in a long-suffering sigh. "I'll give you an example. I _know_ that the world was created in six days, exactly as-is. With me so far?"  
  
"I'm following," allowed Jon.  
  
"Good enough. All right, now let's say I _learn_ that radiometric dating says lots of rocks on the planet are millions and billions of years old, and then I _learn_ that they have fossils in them, and the fossils get more and more complex the more recent they get, and then I _learn_ that we have a lot of DNA in common with chimpanzees, and 'intellectuals' start making predictions like 'if evolution is real, we will find _this_ in the fossil record and _that_ in our chromosomes' and get all high-and-mighty when they turn out to be right, except that when you ask them 'Why is there _something_ instead of _nothing?_ ' they have _no idea_ , and then you find out that scientists are arguing back and forth about specific details of their theory every step of the way, and it's not like any of them can be sure, they're just making logical guesses based on evidence, but _they don't know!_ There's so much that they don't know! I _know_ why the world is how it is: because God says so! If they would just shut up and do what their Father wants, everything would be okay!"  
  
He was in fine form now, running on the pure righteous anger that fueled his most intense moments on camera, underwritten by the note of why-won't-you-let-me-help-you desperation so often heard in the speech of Americans trying to figure out why they weren't being greeted as liberators.  
  
"It's a defense," said Jon out loud.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're scared of uncertainty— _terrified_ of it—because things have gotten so out-of-control for you before. So you overcompensate by blocking anything that gets in the way of your certainty—but, Stephen, you can't just throw out every bit of knowledge that makes you start asking questions!"  
  
"Why _not?_ " demanded Stephen.  
  
"Well, for one thing, you get horrible buzzing headaches every time you run into something you can't immediately reconcile," said Jon in a rush. "Is that right? That's when they happen, isn't it?"  
  
Stephen fidgeted under his still-kneading hands. "...Maybe."  
  
Jon tried to remember whether Stephen had suffered any of those brief, intense outbreaks of pain when he had been a correspondent. He was sure there hadn't been any on-air, at least. "And has it gotten worse as you got older?"  
  
"How did you—?"  
  
"Educated guess. The more you learn—and you can't help picking stuff up in jobs like ours—the more conflicts you're going to run into. You're not going to be able to hold them all off forever."  
  
Stephen considered this for a moment, then shook off the massage and flopped back into his normal spot on the couch, leaving Jon's hands to flail uselessly in the air. "Can we go back to the book now?"  
  
Jon hid a tender smile behind his fist. "Of course."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 5, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
They didn't actually finish the chapter until the next afternoon. The reading got off to a late start (the kitchen sink had backed up, and Stephen had insisted on being the one to fix it), and Jon knew he would want plenty of time to get ready for the movie premiere that evening. But Stephen listened from his side of the couch with relative calm, speaking up just enough that Jon believed he was listening rather than tuning it out, and the pages flew by.  
  
As he closed the book, Jon checked the clock, then set the volume on the end table next to the notepad, pen, and as-yet hardly-used box of tissues. "Stephen...since we've got some time...can I, uh, put my arm around you?"  
  
Stephen looked up from the stormy reverie that had periodically rolled over him during the reading. "What? —Sure," he stammered, pushing away from the back of the couch to sit at attention. "Go ahead."  
  
Jon slid closer and draped an arm over Stephen's shoulders. Forewarned as they were, they stayed alert but didn't cringe, tense, or knock him off. "So far, so good."  
  
"Big deal, Jon. We've done this a hundred times before."  
  
"Hey now. Let's take all the victories we can get."  
  
"If you say so." Shrugging, Stephen spoke with what was probably the fakest enthusiasm Jon had ever heard. "Hooray. Woohoo. Throw the confetti and sound the trumpets: Jon Stewart's manly arm-fur is in close contact—"  
  
"Can I kiss you?"  
  
"—with my nice tailored what now?"  
  
"I'd like to kiss your neck," elaborated Jon. "If that's all right."  
  
All the sarcasm drained away. "Yes," said Stephen softly. "Please."  
  
Jon smiled to himself, leaned in, and nuzzled the crook of Stephen's neck before pressing his lips to the soft skin.  
  


  
Stephen moaned.  
  
Immediately Jon drew back. "Still here?"  
  
"Still here," affirmed Stephen. "You—you don't have to stop."  
  
So Jon bent down for another, and this time Stephen leaned into it himself, breath coming quick and shallow, and Jon knew he had to keep his head but oh, this was nice.  
  
"I've missed this," admitted Stephen.  
  
"Yeah," breathed Jon. "Me too."  
  
Clasping Jon's free hand between his own, Stephen pulled it to his heart, fingers wrapping around it like a secret.  
  
"You sure about that?" murmured Jon. "You didn't want me touching your chest before...."  
  
"'S fine," insisted Stephen with a quick shake of the head. "It felt like...something else...before. This is different."  
  
But he drew his knees protectively up to his chest as he spoke, sock-clad heels digging into the edge of the cushion.  
  
"Anything you want to talk about?" asked Jon softly.  
  
Stephen quivered. "You'll get mad."  
  
"I won't. I swear, I won't be mad at you."  
  
"Not at me. At him."  
  
"Stephen, if someone hurt you...."  
  
"But you can't blame him!" cried Stephen. "Besides, it only makes sense! I was a B cup then. Of course I was going to get groped!"  
  
The words hit Jon like a bolt of lightning. "This was when you were pregnant. This was _recent_."  
  
A nod.  
  
Jon's voice could have frosted over the windows. "This was O'Reilly."  
  
"You can't get mad at Papa Bear!" squeaked Stephen. He was rolled up almost in a little ball now, Jon's hand clutched at the center; there was something other than rising panic breaking into his voice. "Not over the groping or the name-calling or the slapping or any of it! I told him he could do whatever he wanted. He had the right!"  
  
"I'll get as mad as I damn well feel like!" Jon shot back. "Could you have turned him down if you wanted? Or did you feel like you weren't allowed to say no?"  
  
"It—it doesn't matter. Tyrone liked it. He took care of it."  
  
"But what about you? How did _you_ feel?"  
  
"I—I wanted to like it—because he wanted me to—"  
  
"Then it's truthiness! What's the truth?"  
  
"The truth is that I hated it!" wailed the other man, eyes filling with tears. "But it made Papa Bear happy! Isn't that enough? Stephen said if I was good, that would be enough!"  
  
Jon yanked back as though _he_ had been slapped.  
  
He blinked several times, gathered up the shattered fragments of his composure, and stammered, "Who are _you?_ "  
  
The other man froze, staring at some point far below the floor. "Shake it off, Col-bert," he ordered in a low, automatic voice.  
  
"No!" cut in Jon. " _Don't_ shake it off, Col-bert!"  
  
Brown eyes looked sharply up at him, huge and skittish as a stray kitten's.  
  
Jon searched them intently. "Col-bert?" he ventured, the hard T at the end feeling awkward and unnatural on his tongue.  
  
"If you're not gonna shout at me," whispered (whoever-it-was) brokenly, "you can call me Stevie."


	19. The Traumatized Inner Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [stick figures](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/227665/may-14-2009/donorschoose-org-donations); [you might be a terrorist](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/91917/august-21-2007/formidable-opponent---terrorism); [global warning](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/183015/june-06-2007/the-word---airogance). [This picture](http://i142.photobucket.com/albums/r102/sailorptah/gracenew/grace09.png) was my specific reference for the art. The premiere that Stephen [was invited to](http://www.nofactzone.net/?p=2155) was _In the Shadow of the Moon_.

**September 5, 2007  
Continued**  
  
"Stevie," echoed Jon. "Stevie Col-bert?"  
  
The man beside him, cringing, tearful, nodded. His limbs were pulled close with the slightly floppy awkwardness of a small child, and Jon had the fleeting thought that his eyes looked larger than ever, the lines of his face less sharp.  
  
"You're not Stephen at all, are you?"  
  
Stephen— _Stevie_ —shook his head. "'Msorry," he sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.  
  
"It's okay," soothed Jon quickly, grabbing for a tissue. "Can—can Stephen hear me right now?"  
  
Another shake. "He's down inside. He'd be real mad if he knew I was out."  
  
And that was definitely a child's inflection in his voice...along with a distinct Southern accent. How old had Stephen been when he dropped the T from his last name, corralled his down-home drawl into the clipped newsman's tones? More to the point, had those changes come before or after he picked up the alias Tyrone Hunnibi?  
  
Jon could deal with that later. Had to figure out some basics first—and make sure the kid felt safe. "Are you ever listening when Stephen's...out? Do you know who I am?"  
  
"'Course I know you," said Stevie, in a slightly choked voice that bore none of Stephen's finely honed condescension. He was stating a fact, nothing more. "You're Jon Stewart. You keep us safe."  
  
That, right then, was the moment when Jon's heart melted. _I'll keep you safe, I'll fight for you, I'll tuck you in and kiss you good night. I'll take care of you. Anything you want._ "Stevie...sweetheart...can I hug you?"  
  
He braced himself for one of Stephen's agitated pounces: needlessly, as it turned out, because Stevie merely crawled into his arms, dropping the crumpled tissue along the way.  
  
Jon's lap was not designed to seat someone this large, but he did his level best. "Shh," he murmured, draping his arms lightly around Stevie's awkward, gangly body. "It's all right."  
  
Stevie squirmed. "You smell nice," he declared, snuggling up against Jon's side.  
  
"Thanks," said Jon uncertainly.  
  
"An' you listen," continued Stevie. "And you don't shout. An' you won't let Stephen shout either. That's how come I wanted you to find me."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Being hugged by Jon was just as nice as he had imagined.  
  
He had never been able to get it directly before. Sometimes, when Jon was holding Stephen, he would come out and settle in next to them, trying to pick up the residual warmth. But this was different. For starters, it was a thousand times cozier.  
  
"Stevie," said Jon, (and that made him feel even warmer, to have Jon saying his name, _seeing_ him), "why haven't I met you before?"  
  
"Y-you have. A little. I'm not s'posed to come out."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"'Cause I'm a brat," said the little boy dutifully. "An' I'm a nuisance, an' I get in the way. People only want to see Stephen or Tyrone. The Colbert Nation wouldn't like Stephen if they knew about me. People wouldn't do _you-know-what_ with Tyrone if I was there."  
  
"You know about Tyrone?"  
  
"I can see when he goes out," agreed the boy. "Sometimes I'm stuck under the shelf, but I can still see."  
  
Jon smoothed his hair away from his temples. It felt nice. Gentle. "What shelf, honey? What are you talking about?"  
  
"Behind the desk. _Inside_ ," insisted the boy, then looked hopefully at the pen and paper sitting next to the tissues. "Can—can I draw it for you?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Still sitting awkwardly in Jon's lap, Stevie braced the notepad against his chest and drew with slow, wobbly strokes. He didn't seem at all self-conscious about the positioning. Jon just tried to breathe slowly.  
  
How much did this explain? How many of Stephen's strange outbursts, anxious phone calls later denied, sudden shifts between competence and helplessness, could be chalked up to the fact that he was carrying around this split-off anxious child inside him?  
  
Not to mention Tyrone. The impression Jon had tried to cling to, that he might be a kind of semiconscious state into which Stephen slipped, was now well and truly shattered.  
  
He hadn't been sleeping with Stephen at all.  
  
When Stevie finished the drawing and fumbled with the paper to show it to him, Jon held up a hand. "Just a second, Stevie. Can you scoot over a little? You can be right here," he patted the cushion beside him, "and you can leave your legs where they are. It's not you!" he added quickly, as Stevie's lip (Stephen's lip) wobbled. "My leg is falling asleep, that's all."  
  
The explanation seemed to reassure the other man. Well, boy, really; he sounded for all the world like an eight-year-old. "That happens to me," he informed Jon, a rush of pins and needles descending on Jon's thigh as the weight moved off of it. "'Cause of the shelf. See?"  
  
He pushed the drawing toward Jon's face; Jon caught his wrists and gently inched them backwards until the scene came into focus.  
  
It was the _Report_ set.  
  
But not exactly, Jon realized. The blocky scene had the same basic layout as the main stage, with the C-shaped desk as the centerpiece and a bespectacled stick figure labeled _Stephen_ behind it. That doorway, though, the one with a suggestion of a hall beyond: that was new. (An arrow labeled _Tyrone_ pointed down the passage, cast in shadow by a mass of ballpoint crosshatching.) And the shelf....  
  
The bookshelf was toppled over, scribbly books spilling across the floor around it, a little figure labeled _Stevie C._ tucked underneath.  
  


  
"Aw, Stevie," murmured Jon. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't be stuck there."  
  
Stevie ducked his head, peering up over the edge of the paper. "I hafta be out of the way. It's Stephen's life, not mine. Stephen's the one with the show, an' his name all over the set and in the segments and on all the products an' _everything_."  
  
"That's, uh, not exactly true." Jon patted Stevie's knee. "Have you been listening to any of the stuff Stephen and I are reading? About trauma?"  
  
A nervous nod.  
  
"Do you know about dissociation? Splitting?"  
  
"Mm-hmm."  
  
"Well, that's what Stephen's done. Something bad happened to all of you, when you, uh, or at least your body, was in its twenties, and Stephen protected himself by splitting. You're not some outside nuisance that he got stuck with. You're someone he created, kind of a part of him, a...."  
  
"An alter," said Stevie. "I know."  
  
Jon gaped. He had gleaned the term from other readings, but it hadn't even been mentioned in the pages he had read so far to Stephen. "How did you...?"  
  
With a squeak, Stevie hid his whole face behind the drawing. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"  
  
"It's okay, honey, it's okay! I just wanted to know how you found out."  
  
"Saw it in a book," stammered Stevie. "Stephen throws books at me a lot. An' I know I'm not s'posed to, but I think about them. An' remember."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Slowly, Jon pulled the notepad down, so that he could look into the boy's eyes again.  
  
He still hadn't gotten angry.  
  
"I don't mind that you think," he said, one hand patting the boy's knee. "It's a good thing. And I've said the same to Stephen. And, listen, if you have questions, you can ask me, okay? I can't promise I'll know the answers, but I won't get mad at you for asking."  
  
The boy pistoned his heels distractedly against the far cushion. "Jon?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Am I a terrorist?"  
  
"No! Where would you get that idea?"  
  
The boy gulped hard. "I came up with this plot to kill Americans, and Stephen made me tell it so people could prepare, only then he said people _couldn't_ prepare for it, so I was helping the terrorists win by talking about it, an' I asked if I was a terrorist, and he said he didn't know!"  
  
Jon stared at him in...was it anger? It was awfully quiet for anger. And when he talked, it was in a whisper: "Formidable Opponent."  
  
Was that supposed to be answered?  
  
"You're not a terrorist, Stevie," said Jon after a moment. "And you're not a bad person, either."  
  
"Am so!"  
  
"Easy, honey, easy!" exclaimed Jon, wincing. "You don't need to shout."  
  
Well, _someone_ had to, didn't they?  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"It's not just about maybe being a terrorist," insisted Stevie. "I _know_ things."  
  
"Nothing wrong with that," said Jon promptly. His head was still spinning from the revelation that Stephen had been switching identities on camera for two years, as often as once every couple of months. And did that mean there might be others besides Stevie and Tyrone, whose appearances Jon couldn't spot at all without a flashy graphic to make it obvious...?  
  
"There is if you know the wrong things! If they make you stop being good!"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Stevie pulled the notepad closer to his chest, fingers crumpling the edge of the top sheet. "Well...good people support the President. Stephen says."  
  
"He does say that," agreed Jon, hoping that was vague enough to offend neither Stevie nor Truth.  
  
"And the President appointed the head of NASA, so you gotta support him too, right? By the transitive property."  
  
"Uh, sure...."  
  
"An' _he_ said it was arrogant for NASA to make decisions about what was right for the climate, an' try to force them on the rest of the world, like they know what the rest of the world wants."  
  
"I think I remember that, yeah."  
  
"An' Stephen can agree with that, and support the President, and be good like that. Because he _doesn't_ know what the rest of the world wants. But I—Jon, I—I know who signed the Kyoto Treaty."  
  
"Do you," said Jon quietly.  
  
The kid took a deep breath. "Albania Algeria Angola Antigua-an'-Barbuda Argentina Armenia Austria Azerbaijan Bahamas Bahrain Bangladesh—"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jon put a finger to Stephen's lips; Stevie immediately froze up. "You—you can seriously _recite_ all the signatories?"  
  


  
Not until Jon had moved the hand away did he nod. "Up to Zambia."  
  
"Uh, wow," stammered Jon, genuinely awed. "I couldn't do that. I remember it happened on the Wørd one time, but—"  
  
He stopped.  
  
Stevie tensed again, eyes locked on him with frozen watchfulness.  
  
An expletive that the kid was probably too young to hear slipped out of Jon's mouth.  
  
"You're the _bullet_."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"S-sometimes," admitted the little boy, starting to tear up. "I can't help it! Don't be mad!"  
  
Jon put a hand on his arm—not to grab him or shake him, just to touch, to soothe. "Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean...you caught me off-guard, that's all. There's a lot I don't understand here, all right? Just give me some time. I really am sorry I can't be better at this."  
  
"'Sokay," said the boy, sniffling. "Stephen'll get shouty if you do too much for me anyway."  
  
"What? Why would he do that?"  
  
"Because I can't do anything _back!_ " cried the boy. "Stephen can explain things to you, and warn you about things, and promote your show, and sell useful products, and make you smile, and defend your country, an' all _kinds_ of other stuff. An' Tyrone—Tyrone can do _you-know-what_ better'n anyone else. But, Jon, I can't do anything! Except stupid stuff like making googley-eyed clams and naming fish! When I try to do important stuff, I make mistakes and I get things wrong! So they'll have to work extra-hard to pay you back, because I can't do anything useful at all!"  
  
With the gentlest of touches Jon pulled him closer, and he leaned gratefully into the hug, pressing his damp cheek against Jon's warm chest.  
  
"It isn't _like_ that," murmured Jon into his good ear. "That isn't how this works. I don't love Stephen because he does things for me. And neither of you has to bring out Tyrone to get me to love you, the way you did with O'Reilly."  
  
A hiccuping sob burst from his throat. Like a magician pulling handkerchiefs from a sleeve, Jon produced another tissue and slid it into his hand.  
  
"Just be you," he urged. "That's enough. I'll love you. Just be you."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon had only the one self to work with, but as he cradled the sobbing child-in-Stephen's-body in his arms, his thoughts were still trying to run in a dozen directions at once. At least, until he heard the gentle knock at the top of the stairs.  
  
"Give us a minute, Charlene!" he called.  
  
"J-Jon?" squeaked Stevie. "Is Stephen late for his movie?"  
  
"Not yet," replied Jon, glancing at the wall clock. "But he's running low on time to get ready. He'll have to come back soon...that is, if you're okay with switching...."  
  
Stevie whimpered and turned his face to Jon's shirt. "Don't wanna leave you."  
  
"Okay, then." Jon carded softly through his hair, wanting nothing more in that moment than to put the world on pause and hold him for as long as he needed. Impossible though that was, surely it couldn't hurt to let him miss one premiere. "I just have to go tell Charlene that Stephen's not feeling well, all right? Stay right here. I'll only be a minute."  
  
He untangled himself from Stephen's limbs, heart aching at the sight of Stevie huddled in a pile on the couch, and flashed his best reassuring smile before ascending the stairs.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Charlene forced the brush through her thick curls as she waited at the entrance to the basement.  
  
She had already showered and pulled on her dress, a floor-length forest-green number with a slit that flashed just enough calf to catch Tracey's eye every time she walked by. Not that she was pressed for time—Stephen spent longer on his face than she did, and twice that when he had been crying—but her hair still needed all the attention it could get.  
  
Politeness demanded that she not brush and talk at the same time, so when Jon opened the door, she forced her hands to give it a rest. "Hey, Jon. Just wanted to make sure you guys didn't lose track of the clock."  
  
"Yeah, uh, about that," stammered Jon. "Something's come up, and, well, I don't think—"  
  
"Geez, Jon, you could have warned me!" interrupted Stephen, coming up behind him. "I know you're excited about this reading thing, but if it cuts into my red carpet time, the good people at GettyImages will be _very_ disappointed."  
  
He shoved unceremoniously past Jon, who goggled at him in inexplicable amazement, and paused only long enough to turn his most charming smile on Charlene. "It looks gorgeous on you."  
  
Charlene smiled back. "Oh, good. I wasn't sure it was my color...."  
  
Stephen was already on his way down the hall. "Not the dress!" he called over his shoulder. "I was talking about my money!"  
  


  
A few beats later, the spell that had fallen over Jon snapped. "Stephen, wait!" he yelped, scrambling to follow.  
  
Taking the brush to her hair as she walked, Charlene headed for her own room, albeit at a more reasonable pace. She could shrug off Stephen's odd comments, especially when it was such a relief to see him recovered. Although, come to think of it, maybe it hadn't been crying she had heard in the first place. His eyes hadn't seemed red or puffy at all.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen all but ran for his room: the cleansing jets of water, the dark suits and designer ties, the safety of a routine that he knew would drive the low hum from the back of his head.  
  
He pretended not to hear Jon jogging after him, and made it all the way to his door before a hand lighted on his arm. "Stephen, please—!"  
  
"I'm in a hurry, Jon!" he snapped, smacking the touch away. "Can it wait?"  
  
"I don't _know_ ," said Jon desperately. "How much of that do you remember?"  
  
"What's to remember?" hissed Stephen, stripping off his shirt and balling it up before hurling it at Jon's chest like the world's floppiest missile. "We did some reading, you wanted to make out, then you decided you wanted to talk instead, and now I'm going to be late and it's all your fault."  
  
"Ohhhh, no it isn't." Stephen's belt went soaring along the same trajectory as the shirt, but this time Jon managed to dodge, albeit with about as much grace as a newborn giraffe. "You have multiple personalities, Stephen. I was just talking to one."  
  
"That is _not_ what they are!" growled Stephen, trying to shuck off his pants and back towards the shower at the same time. "Okay, maybe I dissociated a little in there. But that's all! It's a perfectly normal trauma response, just like Dr. Moreau said. I'm not _crazy!_ "  
  
"Of course you're not!" countered Jon. "And the doctor wasn't wrong. Stephen—and there might be at least one person in there who already knows this—have you heard the new official term for MPD? Dissociative identity disorder."


	20. We Are Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains lines from _Horton Hears A Who_ , which is also the source of the title, and _I Am America_. Clips referenced: [wanting an iPhone](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/183104/june-27-2007/give-stephen-an-iphone); [Snoopy](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/36305/december-13-2005/the-de-ballification-of-the-american-sportscape).

**September 6, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
It was well after midnight when Stephen and Charlene came home.  
  
Jon might even have been asleep if not for George. Instead he was holed up in the den with the baby and a bottle, a _Project Runway_ rerun playing on low in the background. He listened as the Colberts went up the stairs, trying to clock how long it would take them to change out of their respective finery, wondering how much time he should build in to avoid getting a dinner jacket lobbed at him.  
  
He was rubbing George's back when the baby giggled. A moment later Stephen leaned over the back of the couch.  
  
"Hey, baby boy," he murmured, ruffling George's fine dark hair before nodding towards the television. "This is called the _homo-fashionable agenda._ We don't like it. Understand?"  
  


  
George burped.  
  
"He's your son, all right," affirmed Jon, heart filling with warmth at Stephen's startled smile. "You want to sit down?"  
  
Without a word Stephen circled the couch and joined him, stopping only long enough to pick up the remote and switch over to Fox. He didn't reach out to take George, so Jon shifted the baby into a more comfortable hold in the crook of his own arm, dabbing away bits of spit-up with the towel before setting it aside. George made a couple of contented noises, then settled in with a yawn.  
  
"How was the movie?" asked Jon at last.  
  
Stephen shrugged. "Only saw half of it."  
  
"I thought you got there on time? Or did something happen...?"  
  
"I was in my seat the whole time," said Stephen quietly. "But I missed half of it."  
  
"...Oh."  
  
The light from the screen flickered pale and blue across their faces.  
  
"It's called the Colbunker," whispered Stephen.  
  
Jon remembered the scrawled scene, the sheet of paper he had torn off and left on Stephen's pillow. "Is that where you go?"  
  
"Is that what's supposed to happen?" mumbled Stephen out of the corner of his mouth. "Because sometimes I just black out. How about that?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Happens more when the show's on vacation," continued Stephen. "Is that normal? Sometimes I'm not losing time, but I feel feelings that aren't mine, or words come out of my mouth that I didn't say. Is that part of it?"  
  
Jon's heart ached all over again at the quiet desperation in Stephen's voice. "I don't know," he repeated, throat dry. "I've only looked through stuff on PTSD, on the type of repression that comes with that. DID is a whole other level. The books barely mentioned it."  
  
" _Books_ ," hissed Stephen with unabashed disgust. "You and your _books_ and your _questions_ are only making everything worse."  
  
"Stephen...I'm sorry, I...."  
  
"He's asleep," interrupted Stephen, and for a moment Jon thought he was talking about Stevie, until he followed the other man's gaze to the dozing baby. "Shhh."  
  
Jon hushed. Stephen relaxed against the cushion beside him, eyes half-lidded but not closed, keeping watch.  
  
"Come on," he whispered at last, before Stephen's breathing could even out entirely. "Let's get you two upstairs."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Daddy!"  
  
"Inside voice, kiddo," admonished Jon, closing his laptop as Nate trotted over to him. (There was nothing on the screen worse than unnecessarily complicated interactive graphics of baseball scores, but it was a good habit to get into.) "What's up?"  
  
Nate obediently dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Can I watch TV?"  
  
"Sorry, slugger. You don't want to wake up George and Uncle Stephen." The last time Jon had seen him, Stephen was stretched out on the den couch with George on his stomach, the two of them sharing an afternoon nap. Bouts of exhaustion always seemed to follow Stephen's mental breakthroughs, although, as Tracey had gently reminded him, they were also part and parcel of having a two-month-old.  
  
"Why's he sleepin'?" pouted Nate.  
  
"Because he's tired. You take naps when you're tired, don't you?"  
  
"But...!" protested Nate, his three-year-old verbal capacities straining mightily to explain his objection. "But he's _old!_ "  
  
Jon stifled a giggle. "C'mere," he urged, setting aside his laptop and hooking his hands under his shoulders to lift the boy onto his lap. "Oof, you're heavy. If you keep growing like this, before you know it you'll be bigger than I am!"  
  
Nate burst into unabashed giggles of his own. He _would_ beat his father in height one day, but at this stage he didn't even realize it was possible. It was nice to have one person in the world who was convinced that Jon was tall.  
  
Ruffling the boy's hair, he tried to bring to mind everything else Tracey had said when they had discussed just how much should be explained to the kids.  
  
"When Uncle Stephen was younger," he began, "some very scary things happened to him. And now sometimes he has nightmares about those things, which make it hard for him to sleep at night. So when that happens, he has to get lots of extra sleep during the day. Understand?"  
  
Eyes wide at the solemnity of the situation, Nate nodded. "Is Uncle Stephen okay?"  
  
"Sometimes he gets scared," admitted Jon. "And other times he gets sad. And, uh, sometimes when he's upset, he does things he's not supposed to do—like yelling at you. But me and your mommy and Aunt Charlene are all here to help him feel better, all right? So if he ever does anything that scares or worries you, you just come find one of us, and we'll take care of it."  
  
"'Kay," said Nate obediently. "Can we draw?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"It won't be loud! Draw with me, Daddy?"  
  
Jon grinned. "Great idea, slugger. But only on paper this time, all right?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen jumped at the chance to help with the dishes, then, when a glint of suspicion appeared in Jon's eye, made a couple of halfhearted attempts to goad him into an argument about the war. The argument didn't take, but at least Jon stopped acting like he was afraid Stephen might be someone else.  
  
He was rinsing out a soapy glass when Stephen stammered, "When I switch...."  
  
"When you switch what?" prompted Jon after a beat.  
  
"When _I_ switch," repeated Stephen, scrubbing at some bits of grilled turkey that were stubbornly clinging to a plate.  
  
"Oh," stammered Jon. "Oh, I see. Sorry. Go on."  
  
"...it's scary," finished Stephen lamely.  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
"No, Jon, you can't! You've never felt anything like this! You don't know what it's like to—to lose control of your own body, to have someone else knock you out and then prance around walking and talking without you. You have _no idea!_ "  
  
"Of course I don't. Careful with the plate, Stephen. I don't know how it feels. I just meant that I don't blame you for being scared. That's all."  
  
Stephen handed him the plate, scrubbed to a high gleam.  
  
"It isn't always that bad," he amended, as Jon rinsed. "Most of the time it's just—voices. I'm always playing Formidable Opponent in my head, Jon. Every day."  
  
"Mmhmm?"  
  
"You don't think that's strange?" demanded Stephen, hackles rising. "I'm telling you I hear voices, Jon! You don't think that's a little nuts?"  
  
"Well, when you get right down to it, I've heard them too," pointed out Jon. "Both Stevie and Tyrone."  
  
Stephen flinched. "That wasn't supposed to happen. The little boy, Jon—he isn't supposed to talk to people. He's supposed to stay inside, where it's safe."  
  
"You trust me with George," offered Jon softly. "Is it so hard to trust me with Stevie?"  
  
"I didn't mean safe for him. I meant safe for you."  
  
Jon did a double-take. "Stephen, he's just a lonely little kid. What's he going to do to me?"  
  
Stephen dropped a handful of silverware, forks and knives clattering in ragged cacophony against the sink.  
  
"He's _gotten_ to you," he declared, once the noise had died down. "Of course. You and your bleeding heart, of course you'd be vulnerable. Can't you understand? He's a little brat, Jon! He's greedy, and selfish, and whiny, and a crybaby, and he can't do anything for himself, and he can't follow rules—can't you see any of that?"  
  
_"I'm sorry," whispered the little boy in the back of his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"  
  
Will you shut up? I'm trying to talk to Jon. Alone!_  
  
"He's part of your trauma response, Stephen. Which means he is the way he is for a reason."  
  
"How can he be part of it? The—the trauma didn't even happen until I was older. And he doesn't...talk to me about it, or...or _feel_ at me about it, like Tyrone does."  
  
"I don't know," admitted Jon. "But I don't think this has to be linear, or logical. Remember, you did most of this subconsciously."  
  
"I don't have a—"  
  
"Stephen, you can't deny any more that there are things going on in your head beyond your control."  
  
Stephen opened his mouth to try anyway. When no words came out, he settled on a frustrated hiss instead.  
  
"How old is Stevie?" asked Jon after a moment.  
  
"About seven. So he's too young, you see?"  
  
Jon scoured his eyes as if trying to spot the boy hiding behind them. "When you were that age, what did your parents do when you broke rules?"  
  
Stephen gaped at him like he had grown a second head. "What are you talking about? They put me in my place, that's what happened!"  
  
An exquisitely empathetic sad-basset-hound look etched itself across Jon's features, leaving Stephen bristling more than ever. _Sure, my parents could be a little strict, but that was what a boy like me needed until I learned to control myself. And even if they made mistakes, I don't blame them, because they tried their hardest. What does it matter, anyway? I loved my parents. It's right there in the Bible: 'Honor thy Mother and thy Father.'  
  
"Yeah," snorted Tyrone, "right after the part about stoning gays."  
  
You can shut up too!_ thought Stephen, fishing around in the water for another dish. "Why do you care how my parents raised me, anyway? It worked, didn't it? I grew up, and I learned to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, and I stopped being greedy all the time, and— _now_ what are you looking at?"  
  
Jon, his face now a mask of caution, chose his words slowly. "There are some people who might say you seem greedy for things now."  
  
"Like _what?_ "  
  
"Well, uh—there was that whole deal with wanting a free iPhone."  
  
"I didn't want it for _nothing_ , Jon! I reviewed it, I talked it up, I promoted it! You _know_ companies always send us free products when we mention them on-air. It's just good business."  
  
"That's true. But you did it with the Emmys last year too, and they don't need any advertising."  
  
Stephen gritted his teeth. "Don't you _dare_ talk to me about Emmys, Jon My-Show-Has-About-Twenty-Of-Them Stewart. Unless you think my show isn't good enough for one?"  
  
"It's not that! Stephen, you know I thought you should have won last year. More than Manilow, and more than us, too."  
  
"Well, if you think that, then what's wrong with me _saying_ it?"  
  
"Uh, I guess...."  
  
Stephen set to work on the last plate. "It's not greedy to want something I deserve, Jon! The boy you talked with, he wants things he _doesn't_ deserve. And you need to take a firm hand with him, or he'll be helpless and grabby until he sucks you dry!"  
  
"He hasn't asked for anything I can't give." While he talked, Jon went back to rinsing. "He needs to be noticed, he needs to be hugged, he needs to be loved...."  
  
"He 'needs' a pony. Did he mention that?"  
  
Jon blinked. "It, uh, never came up."  
  
"Hah!" crowed Stephen. "You see?"  
  
"It's not an either-or, Stephen! You don't have to get him everything he wants. That doesn't mean you can't let him out once in a while!"  
  
"Why do you want him out more in the first place? Why do you care so much? You're supposed to love _me!_ "  
  
He slammed his hands down on the counter at that last word, in a splatter of water and soap bubbles.  
  
Jon fell into the sad-hound expression again, only this time with stray drips of filmy water trailing down his chin.  
  
"Can't you understand," he said weakly, "that this doesn't have to be a battle?"  
  
In that moment Stephen realized that he was standing on the edge of a precipice, with only a lone voice ( _He can't promise that. He's trying to trick you. Don't trust him_ ) standing in his way—and that it was the first time he had seen the edge without tumbling over it first.  
  
Hauling himself bodily away from the falls, he grabbed a dishtowel and scrubbed the spray from Jon's face. "Don't be upset," he muttered, clutching Jon to his chest, as much to reassure him ( _I trust you, I love you, at least I think I do_ ) as to cut off that gaze. "I don't mean it, when I yell at you. Please don't be sad."  
  
As Jon's arms went around his waist, Stephen realized that Jon was shaking. Heart in his mouth, he pressed a kiss to Jon's hairline and pulled the other man closer.  
  


  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Read to me, Uncle Stephen?"  
  
Stephen felt like he had wandered into someone else's studio and been abruptly called on stage. "Jon...?"  
  
"Go ahead," said Jon with a smile. "I'll take George. Read the kid his bedtime story."  
  
"I've never done that before," whispered Stephen, anxiety making the baby in his arms feel like a leaden weight. "Why can't you do it?"  
  
"It isn't hard," murmured Jon in reply. "Just sit on the bed and read out loud. Slowly and clearly. Think of it as a teleprompter, only with pictures."  
  
Feeling a pang of something he couldn't name, Stephen slid George into Jon's arms and took the book that Nate proffered. Summoning all the _gravitas_ and precision that he applied to the news, he took a seat, gingerly opened to the first page, and began: "On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool, in the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool...."  
  
Patent nonsense though most of it was, the rhythm kept Stephen steady and present. By the last few pages he was even mentally drawing up proposals to incorporate giant elephants into national defense, and trying to figure out if he could get away with the defense "I don't see size" even after making hundreds of well-documented jokes about Jon's.  
  
Nate was evidently just as absorbed: the instant Stephen had read the last word, he exclaimed, "Again!"  
  
"Another night, slugger," said Jon from the door. "Time to go to sleep now."  
  
"'Kay," said Nate agreeably. As Stephen was getting up, though, the kid wriggled out from under the covers. "Wait!"  
  
"Nothing else tonight," began Jon, but Nate was already across the room. There was a kid-size desk there, loaded up with crayons and paper and (for whatever reason) a primary-colored plastic hammer; Nate grabbed the topmost sheet, and presented the paper to Stephen.  
  
"What's this?" stammered Stephen as he knelt to get a closer look, eyeing with some distaste the panorama of what looked like a purple alligator fighting a Pikachu with laser support from a flying saucer.  
  
"I drawed it for you!" announced Nate.  
  
Stephen gaped at the paper in helpless shock. Nate couldn't possibly think this was worth anything. He _couldn't._ Okay, maybe the only thing Stephen himself could draw was Snoopy, but at least it was _recognizably_ Snoopy.  
  
"Uncle Stephen?"  
  
"Hm?" grunted Stephen, only half listening. There was a wave of someone else's fear flooding his higher brain functions, making the wallpaper behind the kid start to go grey.  
  
"Be happy."  
  
For a split second Stephen wanted nothing more than to snap at Nate—to shout that it was high time he gave up these wastes of effort and found something he was actually competent at, because how could he expect to make Stephen happy if he wasn't good enough—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Well, fuck what Stephen wanted.  
  
"You know something, kid? You're all right," he said warmly, chucking Nate under the chin.  
  
Taking the drawing, he stood, and nearly bumped into Stewart coming up behind him. Luckily, Stewart was too busy shepherding the kid into bed to notice anything amiss.  
  
Yeah, kids were all right. Kind of useless, sure, but you couldn't hold that against them. At least they weren't like adults, who knew full well what they were doing and would still kick you as soon as kiss you.  
  
Although, Tyrone reflected as his gaze lingered on Stewart's full lips, adults did have their uses.


	21. Thy Daft Rebel Correspondent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light._  
>  —Plato
> 
> Clips referenced: [Stephen's blackouts](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/247265/august-20-2009/stephen-s-sound-advice---how-to-make-babies).

**September 6, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
_"Don't you dare!" shouted Stephen. "Don't you touch him!"  
  
And why not?_ Tyrone gave his strategically mussed hair a pleased once-over in the bathroom mirror, trying to ignore the fact that, to his eyes, the reflected face was all but snarling at him. _He wants a piece of this. Even your obnoxious flaggy pajamas don't turn him off._  
  
No wonder Stephen thought he was in love: Stewart alternately heaped adoration on him and took his rages in stride. The kid, meanwhile, stood in awe of Stewart's ability and maturity. ( _She_ loathed the man, but of course _she_ hated more or less everyone, so Tyrone never paid her much attention.) Tyrone could take him or leave him—Stewart was short and pudgy and had absolutely no muscle tone—but he was available, ready, and willing. And at least he kept himself clean.  
  
_"He wants **me!** " snapped Stephen. "I know you don't care who's grinding you into the wall, but Jon won't do it with just anybody!"  
  
So I'll make like you,_ countered Tyrone. _Won't be hard. I'll just pretend to be unsure, dial down the kink, snap at him over something stupid and petty, and say 'Jon' every other sentence. Bam! Instant Stephen.  
  
"I won't let you lie to him!"  
  
Oh, get over it. You do **want** to sleep with him, don't you?  
  
"...I...I do, but...."  
  
See? It won't be a lie. It'll be the gospel truthiness._  
  
That said, he swished out of the room, leaving behind both the frantic reflection and the untouched bottle of pills.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
By the time Jon made it to the bedroom, Stephen was already under the sheets, accompanied by his iPhone and his most star-spangled robe. In the pool of yellow light from the lamp on the nightstand beside him lay Nate's drawing, which, as far as Jon could tell, depicted a purple Steogosaurus dancing with SpongeBob under a disco ball.  
  
As he entered, Stephen set the phone quickly down on the paper and looked up at him through tousled bangs. "Jon, please...sit with me?"  
  
His voice was shy, tentative, but with a roughness on the underside, as if lit from below with an unconscious, instinctive craving.  
  
Jon's breath caught. "Sure, Stephen. Lemme just change first, okay?"  
  
Trying to shake off the goosebumps, he backed over to the closet (he would just as soon have lived out of a suitcase, but Stephen insisted that all clothing in the house be properly hung up) and stripped off his T-shirt. When in spite of the warm room the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, he threw a glance behind him, and was surprised to find Stephen looking demurely away.  
  
_Get a grip, Stewart. You're not twenty anymore. You can survive a couple weeks of not getting laid without starting to see sex everywhere._  
  
At last, down to boxers and an even older T-shirt, Jon took a seat on the edge of the mattress to peel off his socks. He hadn't even started when he felt Stephen's weight pressing against his back.  
  
"There's something I have to talk to you about," stammered Jon, one hand gripping his partly-desocked heel as Stephen hummed inquiringly against his shoulder blades. "About our, uh, arrangement—aw, Stephen, you have no idea how distracting this is."  
  
"Don't patronize me, Stewart," huffed Stephen, before dropping back into that disquietingly seductive shyness. "Maybe I _want_ to distract you."  
  
Shaking off his grip, Jon turned to face him. "Stephen, please, this is important."  
  
"And this isn't? I've seen you looking at me, Jon."  
  
Jon winced. "That's what I'm getting at. I'd like to talk about being able to, well, to mess around with Tracey. While we're visiting."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen could see it.  
  
For the first time (or at least, the first time he could remember, whatever _that_ was worth), he hadn't dissociated. Not all the way. Instead he found himself watching, as if standing beside the bed, while Tyrone did subtly seductive things with his body and contemplated doing startlingly filthy things to Jon's.  
  
Only when he was playing Formidable Opponent in his own internal Colbunker had he ever seen this particular Opponent so clearly.  
  
Of course, he was still helpless to _do_ anything about it. And, as he overheard dim snatches of what Jon was saying, he almost would have preferred a panic attack.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Doesn't have to mean sex!" added Jon quickly, when Stephen went stiff as marble. "And I'll still be sleeping next to you at night. But we would appreciate a little more openness—okay, I know I'm not supposed to speak for her, but I know I would. And it might help take the pressure off you."  
  
"What are we, interchangeable?" demanded Stephen, bristling. "Whoops, the new model's busted, better go back to the old standby?"  
  
"No! Nothing like that! It's just—"  
  
"Then maybe you should try putting more pressure _on_ me."  
  
The hand clutching Stephen's robe over his hips shifted, and in a sudden flash Jon realized that he wasn't wearing anything underneath.  
  
"S-Stephen, are you sure this is wise?" he squeaked. "I mean, you don't want to be triggered again, and...have you thought this through?"  
  
"Did I tell you I figured out an anagram?"  
  
"What?" squeaked Jon, wondering if he had misheard. Stephen's voice was awfully low, after all.  
  
"For 'Dr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert, DFA'. The one I was working on."  
  
"Uh, no. What did—"  
  
"'Thy Daft Rebel Correspondent'," purred the other man, leaning closer. "I don't have to be smart, and I don't have to worry about sticking to plans. I just have to be yours."  
  
On a sudden rush of frustration, Jon grabbed Stephen's shoulders, barely even registering his own surprise when Stephen didn't automatically fight him off. "Stop with the anagrams, Stephen! Stop looking for meaning in things outside yourself! How do _you_ feel? Are you really ready for this? Or are you just pretending not to be scared to make me happy?"  
  
The other man looked away, and Jon felt his doubts solidify.  
  
Then Stephen pulled the flag-striped cloth closer around him and met Jon's eyes, all the put-on seductive bravado replaced with utterly convincing innocence.  
  
"Jon. I'm scared. I'm very scared," he whispered, voice hitching. "I've been scared all my life, and over the last few months I haven't even been able to pretend it away. But I want you to do this to me, Jon. I'm sure about this. I'm sure about _you_."  
  
He leaned in again, just a fraction, just enough to prompt Jon to fall the rest of the way forward and capture his mouth in a gentle kiss.  
  
Immediately Stephen melted into it, lips parting, all of him fluid and yielding as he sank against Jon's body. There wasn't a hint of panic beyond the tremor in his hands as he reached under Jon's shirt, not rushing, savoring the contact with every inch of soft skin. Jon in turn savored the chance to lavish attention on him without being flinched from, cupping the curve of Stephen's head and pressing adoring kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his temples, the shell of his pointed ear.  
  
"Not that this means anything," Stephen added, as the robe slipped down to bare his shoulders, "but another anagram for the same letters is 'Thy Correspondent, Left Bared'."  
  
Jon let out a low moan as all the blood in his brain rushed south.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tyrone bit his tongue to keep from snapping as Stewart asked, _again,_ whether he was okay. As if his cock were going to just deflate if Tyrone said no.  
  
_"Don't hurt him," ordered Stephen. "Give him what he wants, but don't you dare hurt him."  
  
What do you think I've done all my life? Shut up and stop backseat fucking._  
  


  
A couple of slick fingers pressed inside him, and he arched against Stewart, the sensation all but drowned out by Stephen's mounting anxiety. _"Are you sure he's supposed to sound like that?"  
  
Damnit, haven't you ever had sex before?  
  
"I usually black out before this point! Is it always this messy? Is he always this vulnerable? Are **you** always this vulnerable?"  
  
I'm not **vulnerable!**_  
  
Stewart pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw. "It's all right."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Feeling vulnerable," murmured Stewart, brushing a few sweat-dampened locks of hair back from Tyrone's face (with, thankfully, the hand not coated in lube). "This is...Stephen, I can't imagine how hard it is for you, how much trust it's taking to get you this far. Hell, _I'm_ scared, and I've never...." He blinked rapidly, eyes shining in the low light. "You amaze me, babe. And I love you for it. Fears and all."  
  
"Just _fuck_ me, already," begged Tyrone, _not_ choking up as he pulled Stewart down—because it didn't matter, it was just sex, it didn't _mean_ anything—  
  
—except that it _did_ , it meant a whole hell of a lot—  
  
—and then Stewart was pushing into him and it fucking _hurt_ —  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—Tyrone fled, leaving Stephen with no shield from the searing blast of pain and fear and memory—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_She_ flared into action, talons out, wanting to screech and slash and tear, Stephen all but sobbing as he wrestled her back—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Stephen?  
  
"Oh God. Stephen, can you hear me?  
  
" _Stephen!_ "  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Sheets of hot water cascaded over his skin: the tactile equivalent of white noise.  
  
The tub around him was cool and sturdy, the curtain half drawn, casting a panoply of blue shadows over the small space. Enclosed, walled-off, and alone. Safe.  
  
"Still here?" whispered Jon.  
  
Okay, not quite alone. Not when Jon insisted on sitting vigil on the bathroom rug, leaning against the far wall but still close enough to jump into action if something went wrong.  
  
"Still here," echoed Stephen, the words taking almost all his strength.  
  
Everything hurt. Not only did it feel like he had been ripped in half, but every muscle ached to the bone, and his left hand was throbbing as if it had been slammed in a door. Even the shower was a shade too hot, but that at least felt good. Cleansing. (And hadn't there been something on _House_ about small pains relieving bigger ones...?)  
  
"Do you need anything?" murmured Jon, throat tight. "A drink? Aspirin? Something stronger than aspirin?"  
  
"No," lied Stephen, never mind that he would have sold his soul for a shot of morphine right about then. Because if Jon started digging around in the cabinets, he might find the lithium, and then....  
  
Why did Jon have to be here, anyway? What could possibly happen? Did he think Stephen would try to drown himself? Ridiculous. Just because at that moment Stephen wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his skin, it didn't mean he was ready to start sleeping with the fishes. Or the rubber duckies, as the case might be.  
  
_Of course not. Too long, too messy. I'd make it quick and painless._  
  
A chill ran through Stephen, in spite of the steam all around him, as the image of Sweetness flashed through his mind. _Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it!_  
  
Jon was still there, right? He made a quick check. Sure, he hadn't heard Jon leave, but that didn't mean much. Life was uncertain. You never knew.  
  
Jon was still there.  
  
But, Stephen realized dimly, he was as haggard as Stephen had ever seen him. Hollow-eyed and unshaven. Barely dressed. Between the two of them he was in the better shape, but that didn't mean he was in any condition to keep watch.  
  
Why was he here, then? Why was he straining himself, why...?  
  
_Because he's afraid he broke me._  
  
Oh, how Stephen wanted to shout at Tyrone. But it would only terrify Jon even more if he descended into the Colbunker now. And besides, Tyrone had fled into his own room and padlocked the door; all Stephen could feel was the little boy, huddled by himself, aching to be held just as desperately as Stephen ached to never be touched again, crying alone....  
  
"Jon?"  
  
Jon sat up straight. "Yes! Stephen! Is it Stephen? What can I do?"  
  
"W-will you wash the boy's hair?"  
  
Inside, the boy choked with surprise; outside, Jon edged self-consciously forward. "Stevie? Is he here? Was he—before?"  
  
"He was inside." It would have taken more strength than Stephen possessed to explain that he himself had been there all along: that, although he couldn't fathom how he had managed it, he had taken in every word Jon had said. "If—if I let him out, will you—?"  
  
"Of course," breathed Jon, weak with relief. "Of course I will. Should I use the no-tears shampoo?"  
  
"Good thinking," croaked Stephen, and pulled the boy forward.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stevie let out a squeal and cringed, twisting in a futile attempt to get away from the water.  
  
Jon was at his side in an instant, reaching out for him. "What's—whoa! God, Stephen, are you trying to scald yourself?" He flinched as he reached through the spray to twist the dial, cranking the temperature down.  
  
The boy drew his arms up close to his body. "Stephen wanted it hot," he said apologetically.  
  
"Stevie," murmured Jon. "Hi, sweetheart. Do you like it better like this?"  
  
"Uh-huh," admitted Stevie, struggling to sit up.  
  
"Oh, good." Jon held up the shampoo. "Uh, Stephen asked if I would wash your hair...."  
  
Stevie eyed the bottle warily. "I'm s'posed to do that myself."  
  
"Do you want to do that, then?"  
  
"No!" wailed Stevie. "I want _you_ to do it!"  
  
"Okay!" exclaimed Jon, sounding even more harried, but who wouldn't, when they had to deal with such a nuisance? "Stevie, it's all right. If that's what you want, I'll do it. We're allowed."  
  
Hugging his knees to his chest, Stevie nodded.  
  
Jon squeezed a dollop of the clear-gold gel into his palm. "You might want to close your eyes."  
  
Obediently, Stevie squeezed them shut. The shower poured warmly over his legs, his head and back exposed to the air, while Jon's fingers gently massaged suds into his scalp. Everything else still hurt, even more acutely for him than it did for Stephen, and he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to admit it. But he could bear it more easily when the hunger for touch was fulfilled, in a way that Stephen only sometimes addressed for him and Tyrone never even tried to.  
  


  
"I'm sorry," whispered Jon, hands still soothing. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm so sorry. And Stephen too. Can Stephen hear me?"  
  
It took a moment for Stevie to realize that Stephen _was_ there. He wasn't shouting, even though Stevie was being helpless; but he had only dissociated far enough to be sitting just beside Stevie, watching and listening with quiet exhaustion.  
  
_Don't apologize, Jon. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong._  
  
"He can hear," echoed Stevie. "He says 's not your fault."  
  
"Of course it is. I should have noticed something was wrong, should have...."  
  
"Wasn't," insisted Stevie. "It wasn't s'posed to—T-Tyrone's had bigger, you know, he's had people's whole _fists_ in him, he should've been able to take—"  
  
"Shh, Stevie, shh. You were younger then, weren't you? Your body was, I mean. Maybe you just aren't up for it anymore."  
  
To Stevie's surprise, that made sense. The body had been more flexible back then, not to mention in practice...and on meth, which, as he knew from reading dozens of free-clinic pamphlets, loosened you up. Maybe none of them, not even Tyrone, could pull it off anymore....  
  
Stephen leaned in, choking back a sob. "Jon, I'm a failure!"  
  
"Ste—?"  
  
"F-failed over and over at being straight," wailed Stephen. "Tried being asexual once, and I c-couldn't—and now I've failed at being g-gay—Jon, I've failed at _every_ thing!"  
  
"Oh, Stephen, no," soothed Jon, wiping away trails of lather before they trickled into his eyes. "It doesn't work that way. There aren't any rules on what you have to do to be gay, and there's nothing you can do to make it change. It's something that you _are_ , even before you've slept with anyone. It's just part of the human condition."  
  
This would have been a lot for Stephen to swallow at the best of times. He sank weakly out of the way, leaving Stevie to absorb the information while Jon rinsed him off.  
  
"J-Jon?" he stammered at last.  
  
"Yes? Is this...?"  
  
"'S me," clarified Stevie. "Stephen's asleep." He wasn't even supposed to stay out when that happened, but sometimes he just _had_ to do something, make a call or write a note, even if it meant moving around so much that Stephen missed some of his crucial beauty sleep. "Jon, will you take me somewhere? Tomorrow? Just you an' me?"  
  
"Sure, honey. Anywhere I can. Where do you want to go?"  
  
"Hospital," said Stevie mournfully.  
  
"Oh! Stevie, we don't have to wait. We can go right away, if—"  
  
"Tired," interrupted the boy.  
  
Jon swallowed. "O-okay. Tomorrow it is."


	22. Fruit and Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know who wouldn't be insulted? Well, I'll tell you. The answer is Sybil. She can't stand up for herself. I have to stand up for her. She can't get angry because her mother won't let her. I know it's a sin to get angry, but people **do** get angry. It's all right to be mad if I want to be.  
>  — _Sybil_ (Schreiber, 1973)
> 
> Stephen's/Stevie's methods of self-soothing at hospitals are [also found in Chuck Noblet](http://i142.photobucket.com/albums/r102/sailorptah/gracenew/grace08.png). Extra thanks to [](http://stellar-dust.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://stellar-dust.dreamwidth.org/)**stellar_dust** for the title.

**September 7, 2007**  
Friday  
  
Charlene was trying, and failing, to convince Nate that the right combination of blueberries and cream could make Shredded Wheat a superior dish to Cap'n Crunch, when Jon came into the kitchen looking like death warmed over.  
  
"Morning, slugger. Hey, babe. Hi, George," he said to each of the kids in turn, greeting Tracey with a kiss on the cheek. "Charlene, can I borrow you for a minute?"  
  
He snatched an apple from the counter and nodded to the door; Charlene followed him into the hall.  
  
"Something happened," she said quietly.  
  
"Yeah." Jon grimaced. "He's sleeping now, but I'm taking him by the hospital this afternoon."  
  
"How bad is—?"  
  
"He's okay. For now. I think." Jon tossed the apple from hand to hand with forced nonchalance. "But I'm just gonna take this and run back upstairs, keep an eye on him. Just in case. If he sleeps all morning, can you take over the watching while I'm getting the kids to daycare?"  
  
"Of course," said Charlene instantly. "Is there anything I can send up with you? Coffee, tea?"  
  
"Better not. I think caffeine makes Stevie jittery."  
  
Charlene allowed herself a weak smile. "It's 'Stevie' now, is it?"  
  
A blush rose in Jon's cheeks. "It's sort of a long story."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Not half an hour later, when the cereal bowls were piled in the sink, Tracey had gone to find her work shoes, and the kids were absorbed in the pirate-ship maze on the back of the Captain Crunch box, Stephen himself appeared at the door looking more or less like he had been run over by a bus.  
  
"Hi," he said shyly to the room in general.  
  
From Charlene's lap, George let out a delighted giggle.  
  
Stephen _flinched_ , arms drawn up close to his chest. If Charlene hadn't already believed that something was seriously wrong, that alone would have convinced her beyond all doubt.  
  
"Look at that, George!" she cooed, the soothing tone as much for Stephen's benefit as the baby's. "Daddy's awake. Say hi, Daddy!" Taking George's tiny wrist between her fingertips, she mimed a wave. "There's a good boy. Come on now, Daddy, come say good morning to George."  
  
Eyes darting nervously between her face and the baby's, as if one or both of them might pounce, Stephen edged timorously forward, dropped to his knees, and put out a hand to tousle George's wispy black hair. "G'morning, George," he said in a small voice. "Are you having a good day?"  
  
George reached for his hand, burbling happily as he grasped a finger. Stephen froze.  
  
"You want to take him?" asked Charlene gently.  
  
"I...." Stephen gulped, face a map of anxiety. "What if I hurt him?"  
  
It wasn't George that was scaring him. It was himself. As if the baby were an expensive vase that might easily shatter on contact.  
  
"You've done it before," offered Charlene, "and it's always been fine. Just hold him, okay? Just for a minute, while I cut up some fruit for you."  
  
"O-Okay."  
  
With awkward, over-careful motions he took George into his arms, and didn't move from the spot as Charlene went to the counter. In the middle of the floor with his striped robe spreading around him, he had the aspect of some minor god of patriotism resting on a lotus.  
  


  
Squelching her urge to create a full-blown breakfast platter, Charlene filled a blue plastic bowl with cantaloupe, honeydew, apples, grapes, strawberries. Stephen didn't say a word. By the time she had finished he was still wrapped up in George: not even entertaining the baby with faces or waggling fingers, just gazing down with a level of wonder and amazement she had last seen during the honeymoon, when every moment still included seeing George for the first time.  
  
"Here you go," she said gently, kneeling next to him and holding out the bowl. "Balanced breakfast. Or, at least, a healthy one. I don't suppose you want to move to the table...?"  
  
Stephen's uncertainty flared up again as he glanced at the table. Nate had gotten bored with the puzzle and marched purposefully off a few minutes earlier; Maggie was still in her high chair, dribbling applesauce on her Big Bird bib. "I should go back upstairs," he stammered. "Jon's asleep, an' I think it's the first time he's slept all night, and I don't want him to wake up an' have me not there."  
  
"Good thinking." Setting the bowl on the floor at the edge of Stephen's robe, Charlene reached for George.  
  
The baby let out the beginning of a wail, breaking off only when he was allowed to settle back into his father's arms.  
  
"Looks like he knows where he wants to be," said Charlene. "Can you carry him and the fruit at the same time?"  
  
"I—I can't—what if he doesn't understand to stay quiet, what if he wakes Jon up, what if—?"  
  
Charlene put a hand on his arm. "Stephen. Jon's an adult. Your responsibility is to take care of George, not to make sure George takes care of him."  
  
Stephen's lip trembled, but only for a second. In the next instant he pulled himself together, sweeping to his feet and settling George against his shoulder in one fluid motion. "There you go, baby boy. Easy now. Daddy's got you."  
  
Charlene followed him up and held out the fruit again. Stephen took it with a weary smile. "Thanks, Charlene. You're a real hero, you know that?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tracey managed to trade only the most cursory of greetings with the haggard and unshaven Stephen she passed on the stairs.  
  
Charlene was waiting for her at the kitchen door, not even comfort food-preparing, just slumping against the wallpaper like the weight of the world was bearing her down.  
  
"Is everything going to be okay here?" asked Tracey. "I can always call in sick if you need backup...."  
  
"No, don't do that. Your hurt animals need you." If Charlene had planned for that to have a double meaning, she didn't show it. "But could you go in late, and drop the kids off on the way? Jon's out, and it sounds like he needs the sleep."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen sat patiently on the white-sheeted bed where he had been deposited, shoes off and legs crossed, while Phoebe looked over his chart and weighed the observations. Some bruising, but nothing broken. Traces of blood in the urine, but no reported abdominal pains, which probably meant he had taken a tumble somewhere along the line that was already healing. "It looks like you're going to be all right. The only thing I would prescribe is an analgesic, in case the pain flares up again."  
  
"I _told_ Jon I was fine," huffed Stephen. "But no, he had to bring me in, even though anyone can see I'm ready for anything. See me shake? Steady as a rock."  
  
He held up one hand, palm flat and fingers clamped together, only to have a tremor run through it.  
  
"Side effects!" yelped Stephen, grabbing his wrist and pulling it out of the air. "That's a side effect of the mood pills, right? It's documented and everything."  
  
"Thoroughly documented," Phoebe assured him, pulling up a chair. Stephen squared his shoulders as she did so, adjusting his collar and smoothing two fingers along his hairline, like he was bracing for an interview. "Stephen...is there anything you want to tell me?"  
  
Stephen's professional demeanor broke and rolled away like a wave on the beach. "Maybe," he mumbled, shoulders drooping and eyes shifty.  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
She waited, while Stephen scanned the room and then, to her surprise, dragged the sterile pillow into his lap and wrapped his arms around it like some kind of cubist stuffed animal.  
  
"Stephen," she prompted gently, when the makeshift security object didn't settle him down enough to start talking, "did Jon do anything to hurt you?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon stayed with George through the baby's own checkup. It had actually been scheduled for the following week, but apparently being a risky medical miracle meant doctors were always ready and eager to fit you in.  
  
Although it was his third time hearing the advice for this stage of development, Jon found himself slipping back into that new-father anxiety, taking careful notes on all of it. Besides, Stephen would want to know every detail. George might be Stephen's fifth child, but there were times when Stephen seemed to be turning on him all the overprotectiveness of a first- through fourth-time parent put together.  
  
When a nurse tracked him down, Jon left the notes, the diaper bag, and George himself under the pediatrician's watchful eye. No telling what shape Stephen was in now, and Jon wanted his whole attention free.  
  
He got a shock at realizing that Stephen was in a hospital room; relaxed on finding that the man was in his own clothes, sitting up, and not hooked up to anything; then twitched again when he spotted the pillow wrapped in Stephen's arms. "Hello again, Doc," he stammered to Moreau, who stood beside the bed. "And, uh...."  
  
Stephen's glare sliced through his uncertainty. "What's wrong, Jon? Can't a man hug a pillow if he feels like it?"  
  
"Stephen's been telling me what happened last night," added Moreau, her own gaze as icy as Jon had ever felt it. "How he was severely triggered."  
  
"I saw." (How could anyone have missed it, when those hollow, vacant eyes stared up from the pillow, when Stephen lay unseeing, unhearing, moved by shallow breaths but staring with the eyes of a beached fish—)  
  
"He tells me it started well before you took him to the shower. He was unable to respond throughout the sex."  
  
"What? He was the one who—" Jon stopped short, his nerves frosting over. (All those things he had said, all the sweet somethings he had murmured in Stephen's ear....) "Stephen? You—you weren't—?"  
  
"I could hear you," whispered Stephen, not meeting his eyes. "But I couldn't talk."  
  
Jon's voice broke. "Oh, god, Stephen, I—I didn't know."  
  
"You couldn't tell the difference?" asked Moreau, raising an eyebrow.  
  


  
"Not at first, no! Not when—" Had Stephen told the doctor the full extent of his splitting? Was it Jon's place to reveal it? "He _was_ talking, in the beginning—you knew about that already, he's done it before—listen, the second I realized he was dissociating, I stopped everything except trying to get him to come out of it."  
  
"And when he did, you took him to the shower."  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"I see. Why was your first move to get him washed off, by the way?"  
  
"Because he asked for it!" cried Jon, registering a half second too late that this was probably a poor choice of words. "He was really out of it at the time, but—doctor, please, you can't think I would ever do anything to hurt Stephen."  
  
"Maybe not intentionally," countered Moreau. "But if you're having trouble figuring out whether he's in fit state to give consent—"  
  
" _It's not his fault!_ "  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
All eyes turned to Stephen, who was huddled even more closely around his pillow, eyes wide. His frightened glance darted to Jon, pleading....  
  
"Stevie?"  
  
A tiny nod. In the next instant, Jon was at the bedside; Stephen clung to his shirt. "It's not Jon's fault," he repeated with childish determination. "Don't shout."  
  
"It's okay, sweetheart. Nothing's gonna happen."  
  
Phoebe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. "Has he regressed like this before?"  
  
"It's not a regression," said Jon, wrapping an arm around the other man's shoulders. "Well, I guess you could call it that, but—"  
  
"I'm an alter," said Stephen. Who wasn't Stephen.  
  
Phoebe hastily marshaled her entire expert professional medical understanding of DID. She had operated on a few patients who were multiple, had needed to know their specific needs for getting through surgery; but when it came to treating multiplicity itself, her expertise was limited to seeing the movie _Sybil_ a decade earlier and then listening to a colleague vent about everything it got wrong. "And...your name is Stevie?"  
  
Stevie bit his lip. "Uh-huh."  
  
"Have you met Dr. Moreau?" asked Jon gently.  
  
"Stephen says I'm supposed to listen to her," reported Stevie dutifully. "But she's _wrong_. She thinks it's your fault an' it's _not_."  
  
Phoebe had never addressed a child alter directly, but she had gotten so used to handling Stephen with tenderness that it wasn't much of a leap to make. "Stevie, it's all right. I'm just trying to figure out why you got hurt, so we can keep it from happening again."  
  
"It wasn't Jon's fault," repeated Stevie.  
  
"I understand. But if he hurt you by accident, he still needs to learn how to be more—"  
  
"He couldn't help it!" cried Stevie. "Tyrone's an _actor_. He pretended to be Stephen. Jon didn't know!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon's stomach did a little flip. "T-Tyrone set me up?"  
  
"He wanted it," stammered Stevie. "He got out. An' he wouldn't let Stephen stop him."  
  
Jon nearly choked, the gnawing fear that he had been almost criminally unobservant inverting itself. "He shouldn't have done that. He had no right—"  
  
"Well, what was I _supposed_ to do?"  
  
Stevie gave Jon a rough shove as he pulled away—which meant he wasn't Stevie anymore. The anger and the dancer's grace could have been Stephen's, but there was something sinuous in the curve of his limbs as he settled back, inviting and predatory as a Venus flytrap.  
  
"Have a little self-control!" snapped Jon, skin prickling as he glared at Tyrone. "Don't drag Stephen—not to mention Stevie!—into something he doesn't want!"  
  
"What _Stephen_ doesn't want?" cried Tyrone incredulously. "Stephen gets _everything_ he wants! All I ever get is what that self-righteous, sanctimonious hypocrite is too embarrassed to take for himself!"  
  
"There's excuse for forcing us into—"  
  
"I did not _force_ anyone! Stevie wasn't even there, and Stephen would rather fuck you by proxy than not at all! And you weren't exactly holding back, were you? If anyone should be complaining here, it's me! Stephen won't let me fuck anyone else, and I can barely get out long enough to jerk off these days, so guess who I'm stuck with?"  
  
"Since when do you care?" stammered Jon, half biting retort and half out of genuine confusion.  
  
"Since when does it matter if I do? Nobody's ever even asked what I want! It's always 'this is what the director wants' or 'this is what I'll do to you, so fair's fair' or 'this is what I have time for before the wife gets suspicious'. You're the closest anyone's come, and you only did it because you thought I was Stephen!"  
  
Jon felt something inside him crumble. "You mean...all the other times you've come out, the kinds of sex you had...."  
  
"Oh, no you don't. Don't you _dare_ look at me like that."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like you think I'm some innocent little angel who has to stoically suffer through anything outside the missionary position." Tyrone swung his legs over the side of the bed and jumped lightly off. "I _like_ my filthy back-alley fucking. What I hate is spending my life locked up in a corner of my own mind, until Stephen finds somewhere he can let me out without worrying that I'll damage his precious public image."  
  
"Hang on!" stammered Jon. "Where are you going?"  
  
"You think I'm going to waste my time here?" snapped Tyrone, already halfway to the door.  
  
"I wouldn't advise it."  
  
Jon had nearly forgotten that Moreau was there; Tyrone whipped around as she rose from her chair. "You can't keep the body here. It's my body too."  
  
"I'm aware of that," said Moreau, steady and unruffled as a cliff in a hurricane. "Which is why I'll accept your signature on an AMA waiver, if that's what you decide. But it would be in your best interests to hear me out first."  
  
Tyrone glowered at her. "Make it quick."  
  
"It's privileged medical information," Moreau warned him. "You have the right to ask Jon to leave."  
  
A horrible smirk spread across Stephen's face as Tyrone turned to Jon. "Fuck off, old man."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
For a moment Jon thought about banging his head against the wall. He settled for leaning on it, taking slow, deliberate breaths as he did.  
  
Tyrone's words had been designed to hurt, and deftly so: they had bitten too deep to shake off easily. At the same time, though, Jon was keenly aware that he _could_ shake them off. The defensiveness and derision Tyrone had broadcast with Stephen's face was no worse than anything he had seen from Stephen himself, especially back when they had first met, when Stephen had been younger and less polished and unable to see anything in Jon except a professional rival.  
  
_How old is Tyrone, anyway? For all I know, he's still at the age Stephen was back then. If not younger._  
  
Only time and closeness had allowed Stephen's view of Jon to grow and change, and even now he couldn't hold too much ambiguity in his head at once. Of course Tyrone would have the same limits. Just as Stevie saw nothing but good in Jon, trusting him with secrets and desperately hoping to please him, Tyrone saw him as nothing but a problem, someone who would be manipulative and exploitative if Tyrone didn't keep him at bay.  
  
_So, like an idiot, I played right into the script. I adored Stevie and attacked Tyrone. When all he's been trying to do is get his own needs met, in the only ways he knows how._  
  
He's not bad. He's not wrong. He's just as lost and broken as the rest of Stephen.  
  
How did I miss that?


	23. A Shot At Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [the kidney stone](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/78242/november-14-2006/the-word---expecting).

**September 7, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
"How do you feel? Any dizziness? Nausea?"  
  
Stephen wrapped his lips around the straw in his complimentary water bottle and sucked another gulp down. The water was supposed to flush from his system all the gunk they had shot into it to make the CT scan work; he wasn't sure what the point of the straw was (his hands weren't shaking _that_ much), but as long as it was there, he might as well use it. "All fine."  
  
Dr. Moreau smiled. "Good to hear. Jon and George are in the waiting room. Shall we?"  
  
For a moment, Stephen seriously contemplated deliberately dropping out and throwing Stevie forward. Jon was never going to touch him again. Jon might never _look_ at him again. But he didn't hate Stevie. Not yet.  
  
"Can't you just tell him I'm not ready?" he pleaded instead. "Say you're keeping me overnight. Say I've developed an acute case of type II cooties. Make up some more tests, the way you did to keep Tyrone around."  
  
"I didn't make anything up." Dr. Moreau fixed him with a look of solemn curiosity. "How much do you remember?"  
  
"Oh, bits and pieces," said Stephen lightly, trying to act like he couldn't remember the hurt on Jon's face in high-res technicolor. "Something about wanting to scan for a kidney stone. Tyrone may have gone AWOL the first time I had one, but you can't pull the wool over _my_ eyes. If I had another of those things, I'd be feeling it."  
  
"Not necessarily," said the doctor. "Some people with dissociative disorders can block out physical pain."  
  
Stephen snorted. "I wish."  
  
"You really don't. It makes a lot of diagnoses harder, for one thing. And when I said the same to Tyrone, that's when he agreed to the CT scan. You may not remember times when you've dissociated pain, but I got the impression that he does."  
  
"You can't believe him!" protested Stephen. "He's not trustworthy. He's — dangerous!"  
  
"Not half an hour ago he called you a 'self-righteous, sanctimonious hypocrite'," observed Dr. Moreau calmly. "Neither of you has a shining opinion of the other. And you're not going to make any progress until you learn to cooperate in spite of it."  
  
"How can I cooperate with him? You saw what he did to Jon!"  
  
"Aren't you tired of being at war with yourself?"  
  
"Yes!" cried Stephen, plastic crunching as he squeezed the water bottle in his hands. "That doesn't mean I can cut and run!"  
  
"Of course not. But maybe it's about time you took a shot at diplomacy. It's slow, it's tedious, and there are no easy answers; but if you do it right, everybody can win."  
  
She let that sink in for a moment, then continued: "Or you can keep fighting until you've torn each other to shreds — and if you keep playing tug-of-war with Jon to do it, you'll rip him apart in the process."  
  
Stephen cringed.  
  
"Look at me," said Dr. Moreau, and waited until she had eye contact before continuing. "You can do this. I am absolutely certain that you can do this. I have faith in you. And I do mean all three of you, as well as anyone else who might be in there. The only question is whether you can do it without help. I'm not asking you to agree to agree to therapy now," she added, as Stephen opened his mouth to protest. "I just want you to remember that it's there. There are things a specialist can help with that all the well-intentioned but inexperienced loved ones in the world can't pull off. If you ever feel like you're at the end of your rope, I can find you someone. All you have to do is call."  
  
Stephen's eyes dropped again. "Thanks, doc. I...I mean that. Thank you."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Sitting with George in one of the plush waiting-room armchairs, Jon was halfway through an awkward reading of _Pat The Bunny_ ("Paul can put his finger through Mommy's ring. Can YOU figure out how to adapt this page for an infant who has no mommy, just a cousin once removed who only wears her ring half the time and a godmother who never wears one at all?") when Stephen's body settled into the chair beside them.  
  
Not until Jon had finished reading did he speak. "I'm back."  
  
"Are you all right?" asked Jon softly. "You don't have to tell me what just happened, but...."  
  
"CT scan. The doctor thinks I might have a kidney stone."  
  
Jon winced in sympathy. "Does it hurt?"  
  
"Sometimes I don't feel things," muttered Stephen, before changing the subject. "How's George?"  
  
"Little guy's got a clean bill of health." Jon ruffled the baby's hair; George cooed in appreciation. "They had some advice to pass on to you. I took notes."  
  
"Oh, speaking of." Stephen held up a book. "Something new to read. We're supposed to keep reading the PTSD ones, too. But this one is specifically on dissociation."  
  
"Ah. That's good."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Jon passed George into Stephen's arms; in return Stephen handed him the book, which he tucked along with _Pat The Bunny_ into one of the diaper bag's roomy pockets.  
  
"We need to talk," said Stephen, almost in a whisper.  
  
"I know." Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Jon got to his feet. "As soon as we get home, okay?"  
  
"That's not what I meant." Falling into step beside him, Stephen braced George against his own shoulder and waved vaguely at his head with his free hand. "I mean — _we_ need to talk. Me and the others, down in the internal Colbunker. So that's what I'm going to be doing on the way home, okay?"  
  
"S-sure, Stephen. Uh, can they hear me? Right now, I mean."  
  
Stephen swallowed. "Dunno. It's a mess in there right now, Jon. Like my head is full of...."  
  
"Bumblebees?" suggested Jon.  
  
"Fireworks."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Stephen stayed present all the way to the car, where he fastened George into his carseat with meticulous care and handed the baby the floppy cow to chew on. "I'm going to get really quiet," he warned Jon. "And I might not answer right away if you talk to me. But I don't want you to worry, okay?"  
  
"I'll try."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jon buckled his own seatbelt and switched on the ignition. "Is it okay if I put on the news?"  
  
No answer. Glancing over his shoulder, Jon found Stephen staring straight ahead, alert but unaware, like a man lost in a daydream.  
  
Maybe it would have been safest just to leave the radio off, but Jon switched on NPR anyway. He wasn't sure how much of Stephen's silence he could take.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Although he had never put much stock in irritations like 'complexities' or 'shades of grey', Stephen had always prided himself on being able to see both points of view of every issue: the right one, and the wrong one. Every televised round of Formidable Opponent proved that, when he appeared to debate both sides at once. (It wasn't exactly _him_ arguing the wrong side, but of course the audience had no way of knowing that.)  
  
Now, as he sank into the replica of the set he had constructed within his mind, he had the eerie sensation of being enmeshed in half a dozen different views, every one complex and sprawling, overlapping but distinct.  
  
_Are non-split people like this all the time? Having conflicting ideas about the same thing? How do they manage?  
  
"I dunno," said Stevie. "But I think they do. I think it happens all the time."  
  
"And how would you know?" demanded Stephen.  
  
"I learn," said the boy apologetically.  
  
Had Stephen ever seen him this clearly before? He looked so small.... "You know learning makes you sad, right?" he asked, doing his best to sound marginally less confrontational than usual.  
  
The boy cringed anyway, ducking even farther under the bookshelf collapsed around him. "Uh-huh."  
  
"Then why do you do it?"  
  
"So you don't have to."  
  
Stephen considered this, then braced the heels of his hands on the top of the desk and hefted himself up to sit on the edge. "Come here," he said gruffly, patting the lucite beside him. "I, ah, promise I won't shout."  
  
After a moment during which the air fairly vibrated with hesitation, Stevie scrambled out from under the shelf and trotted over. He made it to the raised platform that supported the desk before wavering. "I — I can't climb that high," he stammered, eyes filling with tears. "I'll get my dirty feet on everything...."  
  
"Oh, stop whining," snapped Stephen. "You hereby have my permission to climb. Feet and all."  
  
Watching him every second, as if preparing to dodge a slap, Stevie braced first one foot and then the other on the silver bars that ringed the base of the desk, hauling himself onto the C-shaped surface. At last he plonked obediently down and seemed to be relaxing, only to tense up and let out a stifled shriek when Stephen tried to put an arm around him.  
  
"What's wrong now?" demanded Stephen. "Are Jon's hugs good enough for you, but not mine?"  
  
"B-but — you never—" choked Stevie, then evidently decided he didn't have the fight for it. "S-sorry, sir. Go ahead."  
  
"That's better." Okay, it felt awkward and unnatural, but Stephen kept his arm around the boy's tiny shoulders. "I need to talk to you. And Tyrone, too."  
  
He turned to address the rafters behind him, the blackness where the artificial light of the set abruptly ended, where there was no shape that the eye could pick out except two eyes that burned like live coals. The one he thought of as a kind of guardian angel, though her form put a viewer in mind of Balrogs more than beatitudes. "And you."  
  
_

_  
"What do you think you're going to get out of her?" demanded Tyrone, sauntering out of his room. "She's not good for much except clawing people's eyes out."  
  
Stevie squeaked and tried to fold in on himself.  
  
"Using the kid as a shield, Colbert?" huffed Tyrone. "That's low."  
  
Stephen gritted his teeth. "I just want to talk. Dr. Moreau said we should. And we need to find a way to stop hurting Jon."  
  
The figure in the shadows shifted discontentedly, hissing in frustration. "He hurt you. He'll attack you. Everyone attacks you, sooner or later. Don't let them."  
  
"Jon isn't like that!" cried Stephen. "He isn't out to get us. Jon could never hurt anyone!" He paused, considering. "Except maybe a terrorist. And even then, it would have to be a really short, old, asthmatic terrorist."  
  
"Then why does he scare you? Why does he make the bad times come back?"  
  
"'For a lot of trauma survivors their strongest feelings rise to the surface when they experience the intensity of a very close relationship,'" mumbled Stevie. "'This intensity connects them with the strong feelings associated with the trauma.'"  
  
Stephen jumped. "Where did you get that?"  
  
"It was in the book. 'Msorry!"  
  
"No," exclaimed Stephen, hardly able to believe his ear. "No, that's good! It means this isn't Jon's fault. It would scare me to get close to anyone. And for him, I want to risk it!"  
  
"Touching as this moment is," broke in Tyrone, "what do you think it's going to change? You're still going to get triggered, just like always, and then you'll panic, like always, and one of us will have to come out and pick up after you. Don't get all weepy over your suddenly-discovered desire to have a boyfriend, while the rest of us get nothing but—"  
  
"Oh, like you aren't just as bad!" snapped Stephen. "Who had to wrestle his life back on track when all you could think about was the withdrawal, hm? Who takes you to the doctor now? Who makes the big bucks at the respectable high-profile career? The only thing you've done for me lately is give Jon trigger-free sex, and now you can't even pull **that** off!"  
  
"You want to handle it yourself? Be my guest! Like I can't find other people to fuck — stop whimpering, Stevie, it's just a word — if this one doesn't work out. Probably hotter ones, too."  
  
Stephen went rigid. Of course Tyrone could do it. With no love or even respect for Jon, much less Stephen, there was nothing to stop him. Unless Stephen could figure out some bargaining chip to offer, and all this thought was already giving him a headache, it would get so much worse if he didn't come up with something fast....  
  
"I'll let you out more!"  
  
It was Tyrone's turn to jump. "What?"  
  
"When there's no crisis to deal with," clarified Stephen. "You can come out on your own sometimes."  
  
"Pull the other one, old man."  
  
"I mean it! —But only when I don't have anything more important to do. And only if you promise not to run off and have me waking up in a ditch somewhere. Or to sleep with anyone else. Or...or any **thing** else."  
  
"You," pronounced Tyrone, "are a pretentious, paranoid idiot."  
  
Stephen clamped his hands over his ears. "It is not **paranoid** to be afraid of gay men's sex drives! Lots of people are! That's how the Republicans keep winning!"  
  
Tyrone rolled his eyes. "If I'm such a kinky freak, why are you trusting me with this oh-so-generous deal in the first place? Forget it. I don't know what you're trying to sell, but I'm not buying."_  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Stephen? We're home...."  
  
Stephen didn't move, insensate and unblinking as ever. To all the moments of panic and heartache he had been through in the last twenty-four hours, Jon added the struggle of whether it would be more destructive to leave Stephen in the car or to haul his unresponsive body inside.  
  
He put off the question by unstrapping George, and had just undone the first buckle when Stephen's hand covered his.  
  
"I've got him," he whispered. "I'll carry him in. I'll give him his bottle. I'll put him down for his nap. I've got him."  
  
"Good. That's good," said Jon, knees weak with relief. "Hey, Stephen...?"  
  
"Yeah?...Jon?"  
  
"Once he's asleep, can we go downstairs?"  
  
"Sure." Stephen scooped George out of the car. "To read? Or just to tell me something?"  
  
"Neither." A chill gust of early-autumn wind blew by, toying with their clothes, ruffling George's hair. "I was hoping I could talk to Tyrone."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_"And don't try anything," warned Stephen for the hundredth time.  
  
"You promised to be quiet!" complained Tyrone.  
  
"Once you're out, I'll be quiet. You're not out yet."  
  
"So move! What are you waiting for?"  
  
"Just — don't try anything!"  
  
"I won't! You keep your promise, I'll keep mine!"_  
  
He looked up, taking in the scene with practiced rapidity. Stephen's basement ( _his_ basement); Stephen's couch; and, sitting across from him, Stephen's man.  
  
"Tyrone?" asked Stewart cautiously.  
  
"Why? Trying to decide whether to butter me up or, well, butter me up?"  
  
For an instant he thought he saw Stewart's eyes sparkle. "I, uh, wanted to apologize to you in person. That's all."  
  
"Really," drawled Tyrone.  
  
"Really. I shouldn't have flown off the handle at you earlier. It wasn't fair to you, especially since I never even tried to talk to you first. And I'm sorry."  
  
Tyrone bristled. How dare Stewart be so calm about this? Not even throwing in any conditions, like he wanted to pretend you could just up and be forgiven for something without being punished first. That was a trap Tyrone was staying far away from. "Stop looking at me like that!"  
  
"I don't understand. Like what?"  
  
_Like you care about me._ "Like you've all of a sudden decided I'm a person."  
  
"Well — you sort of are, aren't you?" Stewart tugged self-consciously at his collar. "I mean, even though Stephen created you to deal with the sex he couldn't handle, you don't just do what he wants. You have your own opinions."  
  
"No kidding," snapped Tyrone, jumping up from the couch. The closed-in basement was getting more stifling by the minute. "How does he think it's comfortable down here? Feels like the walls might come crashing down any second. Come on."  
  
"What? Where are we going?"  
  
"Somewhere there's air!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Uncomfortably afraid that he was being jerked around, Jon followed Tyrone up the stairs. He didn't want to keep mimicking Stephen's mistrust of Tyrone, any more than he had mindlessly gone along with Stephen's dismissals of Stevie; but it wasn't a feeling he could just shrug off in a day, either.  
  
Though theoretically leading Jon, Tyrone kept a few leaps ahead of him, as if he what he really wanted to do was break away and run—  
  
—and then Charlene came through a door with an armload of folded shirts, making Tyrone swerve to avoid her and Jon skid to a stop.  
  
Charlene took a startled step back. "Is everything all—"  
  
"Charlie!" interrupted Tyrone, face splitting into a bright grin. As Charlene and Jon both gaped, he held up a hand. "Up top!"  
  
The laundry spilled to the floor as Charlene returned the high-five, then both of them launched with practiced ease into the densest secret handshake Jon had ever seen, hands flashing in mirror images as they matched each other move for move.  
  
Jon's jaw hit the floor.  
  
He was still gaping like a stunned halibut when Charlene let out something between a laugh and a sob and threw her arms around Stephen's shoulders. "You remembered!"  
  
"Aw, Charlie," murmured Tyrone, returning the hug. "It's just a stupid thing we did when we were kids. You don't need to get all sentimental about it."  
  
"I know," choked Charlene. "I'm okay, really, it's just — I was starting to think you'd forgotten _everything._ "  
  
"Charlene," broke in Jon, "that's not...I mean, Stephen's...."  
  
Catching his eye over Charlene's shoulder, Tyrone fixed Jon with a look that Stephen himself had worn plenty of times: _I was most certainly not flirting with that male stagehand and if you tell my wife I will smear you as a liar from here to Tuscany and besides you can't prove anything and oh God please don't tell her._  
  


  
"Stephen's what?" Sniffling one last time, Charlene looked anxiously up at Tyrone, who still had Jon pinned with that intense shout-in-glare-form. "Are you okay?"  
  
"He, uh...might have a kidney stone," stammered Jon quickly. "The scans haven't come back, but, well, you might want to be careful about jumping on him in the meantime. That's all I was going to say."  
  
Charlene winced in sympathy. "Oh, wow, Steve, I'm sorry. It doesn't hurt now, does it?"  
  
"Are you kidding?" The spell broken, Tyrone winked roguishly and slapped his hip. "Haunches of steel, right here. Hey, want me to help with your chores?"  
  
"Wouldn't say no," laughed Charlene, casting a sheepish glance at the pile of laundry that had fallen at her feet. "I'm not taking him away from you, Jon, am I?"  
  
"What? No! Not at all," said Jon. "Nothing we can't finish up later. You two go ahead."  
  
He didn't exactly get a grateful smile from Tyrone as he left the cousins to their task. But he didn't get glared at again, either.  
  
It was a start.


	24. Calls Each Of Them By Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from [Psalm 147](http://www.usccb.org/nab/bible/psalms/psalm147.htm), verse 4 (NAB). The chapter quotes verses 3-4, as well as [Job 5](http://www.usccb.org/nab/bible/job/job5.htm), verse 18.
> 
> Clips referenced: [Stevie's outfit](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/281884/april-22-2010/sign-off---this-is-a-fun-job); [the moon landing](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/239367/july-21-2009/40th-anniversary-of-the-moon-landing); [honor-bound](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/102505/september-10-2007/the-word---honor-bound); again, [taking Jon down a peg](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182997/may-23-2007/threatdown---pellicano-).

**September 7, 2007**  
(Concluded)  
  
Around bedtime, Jon realized that Stephen had disappeared.  
  
He checked the nursery first, but it was empty except for George, who was absorbed in the stars-and-planets mobile spinning slowly above his crib. (Stephen had wanted stars and stripes, and this had been the closest he could find.) He was just starting to get worried when he found Stephen in the basement: stretched out on the couch, legs hanging awkwardly over one end, the baby monitor dangling from his fingertips.  
  
"Long day, huh?" he said gently.  
  
Stephen didn't look up. "Mmm."  
  
"Do you remember...?"  
  
"Maybe half of it."  
  
"Anything I can fill in for you?"  
  
"Not unless you know how Tyrone knows Charlene."  
  
"Got me there," admitted Jon. "Maybe you could ask him."  
  
"He's asleep."  
  
"Oh." Jon nodded to the stairs. "Hey, speaking of sleep...you want to come upstairs? Bed's probably more comfortable."  
  
"Jon, I can't sleep next to you right now."  
  
Jon winced. "Even if I promise I won't—"  
  
"Doesn't matter!" snapped Stephen. "If you brush against me—if I roll over and bump into you—there's someone in here who—Jon, I _can't_."  
  
"All right, all right," soothed Jon. "Would you rather have the bed alone, then? I can take the guest room."  
  
"I like it down here. You got a problem with that?"  
  
"No. Of course not."  
  
"Good." Stephen turned his face to the cushion.  
  
Jon thought about asking if he wanted a good-night kiss, but decided not to risk it. "Sleep tight, Stephen."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 8, 2007**  
Saturday  
  
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession."  
  
It had been half a year since Stephen had joined Father Ted's congregation, and although the priest had made several attempts to reach out to him on a more personal level, he hadn't made much progress. Any time he tried, Stephen just smiled warmly and asked if he was sure he didn't want anything autographed, really, it would be no trouble at all. And then a week later it was back to the confessional, where Stephen recited his sins with a rote detachment—as if they were a grocery list, or stops on a subway—and then breezed away like he had forgotten them completely.  
  
Father Ted waited patiently for this week's list to begin. He wasn't sure Stephen's venial binging-and-purging was having the healing effect it was meant to, but all he could do was keep reaching out, and ask the Lord to work on Stephen in His own time.  
  
When instead the small chamber hung heavy with silence, he prompted, "Is there something troubling you, my son?"  
  
"Ye-es." Stephen hesitated. "Wait, aren't you going off-script?"  
  
"We do that sometimes nowadays," said Father Ted with a smile. "This church even offers the modernized version of the sacrament, face-to-face in my office rather than in here, with the scripted recitation and penance replaced by a conversation about how to better do God's will. Some of our parishioners find the changed focus to be comforting."  
  
"Don't remind me. It's a slippery slope, Father! One day you stop the weekly ritual declaration of how shameful and sinful you are, and the next thing you know you're experimenting with Lutheranism."  
  
The priest almost laughed. "I promise you, child, you may unburden yourself here and continue to be a devout Catholic."  
  
"I guess," allowed Stephen. "It's just...well, it's complicated."  
  


  
This time, when he lapsed into silence, Father Ted gave him space.  
  
"I've been lying," stammered Stephen at last. "To my cous— my wi— to Charlene. For a long time. Maybe for as long as I've known her, I'm not really sure. But I didn't know I was doing it. Is that still a sin, Father?"  
  
"There's no shame in not sharing a truth you don't know," said the priest cautiously, trying not to jump to conclusions about what Stephen's particular hidden truth might be, and, accordingly, not to start mentally ordering two dozen copies of _What The Church Teaches About Homosexuality_. "But now that you've come to the knowledge, if this is something that affects both of you, she deserves to be aware of it."  
  
Gulping, Stephen plunged ahead. "It affects her. In a big way, it affects her. But maybe she's better off not knowing, you know? You're happier when you don't know things. Besides, I don't want her to worry about me, or to start second-guessing how much I care about her...."  
  
"Perhaps she will. But that in itself may become an opportunity for the two of you to reaffirm your love for each other. One of the reasons we marry, after all, is to have someone to share our burdens."  
  
"It's not her burden to bear!"  
  
"Have you considered, my son, that your deception may be a burden of its own? 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'"  
  
"But I don't _know_ the truth!" cried Stephen. "There's something _going on_ in my head, Father—I can't explain it, you wouldn't understand, even if I knew how to start—and I can't control it, and I can't ignore it—I'm scared, I—I—!"  
  
Language failed him then, the words collapsing into a piercing squeak.  
  
"My heart goes out to you, child," murmured Father Ted. "Will you sit with me in prayer?"  
  
Stephen choked out an incoherent noise of affirmation.  
  
In his most calming voice, the priest asked God for peace and healing for Stephen; strength and acceptance for Stephen's loved ones; and understanding for himself, that by His help he might be able to guide Stephen aright. By the _Amen_ his charge was quietly sobbing, so he followed the prayer with a few soothing verses. _For He wounds, but He binds up; He smites, but His hands give healing. Heals the brokenhearted, binds up their wounds; numbers all the stars, calls each of them by name._  
  
At last Stephen wiped his eyes, sat up straight, and made a valiant attempt to stammer out the Act of Contrition. "O m-my God, I am heartily s-sorry f-for...."  
  
"Your sins are forgiven," interrupted Father Ted. "Go in peace."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Are you sure this is all necessary?" asked Jon, eyeing the knitted gloves. They were the crowning touch on an ensemble that included long pants, two layers of socks, and a hooded sweatshirt large enough that its sleeves went over his hands anyway. "It's gonna get pretty hot under here."  
  
"I'm sure the guest room is quite cool," sniffed Stephen. "But it _is_ your last night here for a while, and I _thought_ you would want to do whatever you could to spend it with me...."  
  
"Aw, Stephen, don't be like that," protested Jon. "Listen, I'll stay for as long as I can, all right? But if you wake up alone except for a Jon-shaped puddle of sweat on the sheets, it won't be because I don't love you."  
  
"Oh, you'll be fine." Stephen pulled the sheet over his own thin-pajama-clad body. "Small bodies lose heat faster. The baby book said so, remember?"  
  
Unconvinced, Jon stretched out on the other side of the mattress, limbs splayed, trying to free up as much surface area as possible.  
  
Stephen made that slightly harder by clasping his gloved hand, but that, at least, Jon wasn't going to complain about.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 9, 2007**  
Sunday  
  
When it was time to pray in church the next day, Stevie, as always, sent up a prayer of his own: _Please let this be okay, please don't hold me against Stephen, please let him take communion even though I'm here, please, please, please, please, please...._  
  
Stephen blocked him out during communion anyway, and Tyrone didn't come out in church at all unless Stephen was triggered, so it probably didn't matter. But Stevie had never taken confession, so he thought it was probably better to add the prayer, just in case.  
  
He would have had a _lot_ to confess. The blasphemous doubts alone could have filled a book—not a picture book, either, but one of the big thick heavy ones. He had been thinking about one of them only the day before (while Stephen was _in_ confession, no less), because the priest had quoted the Book of Job, which was, as far as Stevie could tell, about God completely ruining poor Job's life just to win a bet. And Job got shouted at for thinking it was unjust that God had made a house collapse and kill all his sons and daughters; and then in the end God was supposed to have made up for it by giving Job new sons and daughters, as if that fixed it, as if you could just replace children the way you did cows....  
  
Oh, but Stevie knew better than to ever breathe a whisper of that thought to Stephen. He might be needy and bothersome about a lot of things, but there were some that it was his job to carry alone. He could do _that_ , at least.  
  
Besides, it got a little easier when Jon was around.  
  
Since Tyrone had gotten all quiet and relaxed after the afternoon Stephen let him out, Jon had suggested that maybe Stevie would feel better if he had the same thing: a whole afternoon where he got to do whatever he wanted. He would have been happy to just sit with Jon, maybe having Jon read to him (he could read himself, quite well, but it still felt nice) or look at his drawings; but he had asked for something else, and Jon—  
  
After church, Jon _rented_ a _theater_.  
  
Stevie knew Jon was rich. So was Stephen, for that matter. They could rent all the theaters they wanted. And Stevie knew the whole reason was that nobody would see him, and mistake him for Stephen, and go out and tell the newspapers that Stephen had been weak or silly or tripped over his own feet.  
  
But still, he was amazed that Jon had spent so much money just to give him a whole theater-sized safe space to come out.  
  


  
While Jon carried the popcorn and sodas, Stevie skipped down the empty hall to the screen, until, sure enough, he tripped and skidded across the rug. (He didn't mean to, but Stephen's feet were so huge, his legs so long....) And Jon didn't point and laugh, or yell at him for ruining his nice clothes, or anything but stop and ask if he was okay. (Jon was so _nice._ )  
  
He tried to sit quietly through the film, especially because he didn't want to miss anything. (He had only seen bits of it before, when Stephen had gone to see it with Charlene and switched all over the place.) But about halfway through he couldn't resist, and started whispering facts and figures and cool quotations into Jon's ear. (None of the snarky, witty, piercing things he _could_ have come up with, although he let himself make a few puns, and Jon smiled a lot anyway.) Jon didn't even complain, except the one time Stevie tried to whisper with popcorn in his mouth. (And even then, he didn't shout, or glare, or cuff Stevie for being so sloppy.)  
  
He bounced in his seat through the whole credits. (Jon could have told him it was time to go, but he got to stay, and Jon stayed with him.)  
  
"Can we see it again, Jon?" he piped anxiously, when the screen had gone dark. "Can we, can we?"  
  
"Are you sure?" asked Jon. "I mean, it was completely amazing, but if we watch it again, it won't leave you much time to do anything else with your afternoon...."  
  
Stevie bounced his heels against the back of the seat in front of him. "Jon? D'you remember when the 'riginal moon landing happened?"  
  
"Sure do. I was, uh, I guess about your age then. And Stephen would have been a little younger—do you know if he remembers?"  
  
"'Course he remembers," said Stevie. "He was in _middle school_ then."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I would stand in front of the TV an' pretend I was a reporter," continued Stevie. "Telling people all about the moon landing. An' Stephen told me I shouldn't, because it was all faked anyway. I just didn't understand, because I was the baby, but he was practically almost a teenager and he knew better."  
  
"That's not possible," interrupted Jon. "You were _five._ How could Stephen have been—?"  
  
Stevie froze, shrinking down in his seat. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be impossible!"  
  
Jon's face (now lit with bright purple from a widescreen ad for the concession stand) fell. "It's okay, honey. I'm not mad. Just surprised, is all." He held out a cautious hand, which Stevie grabbed and pulled close like a small stuffed toy. "Do you want to finish your story?"  
  
"Stephen says if the movie makes enough money then the free market will have spoken and it'll mean we really did land on the moon so that's why I wanted to watch it again," blurted Stevie all in one breath. "That's all I wanted to say."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 10, 2007**  
Monday  
  
The instant he stepped into his studio again, Stephen felt his heart soar.  
  
_Colbert,_ said the title above the desk. _Colbert,_ said the shadow it cast on the wall. _Colbert,_ said the graphic on all the plasma screens. _Colbert,_ said the chaser lights at his feet. And not a hard T among them—not even in the "Report" that followed each one, not the way _he_ pronounced it.  
  
This was _his_ place.  
  
"Huckabee said something that _felt_ right in my gut," he announced from behind his C-shaped desk, and Jimmy rolled the montage of the Republican candidates talking about honor—to which Stephen knew exactly how he was supposed to respond. "Which brings us to tonight's Wørd: Honor-bound."  
  
The clean blue lines of the Wørd graphic rolled onto the screen.  
  
"Now, I don't exactly know what they mean when they say 'honor', but it does feel right when they say it."  
  
Things made sense here. He supported the troops, obeyed the President, and followed his gut; right was right, good was good, and up was up. All of the doubt and fear and chaos of the past two weeks had no place here.  
  
"Let's just set aside if we should have gone into Iraq in the first place," he continued. "That's debatable."  
  
_Just Not In A Fox News Debate,_ the bullet chimed in.  
  
As usual, Stephen ignored it. He could even block out the dim awareness that the text was coming from somewhere inside of him, surrounded as he was by so much glimmering reinforcement of his own identity. He could, he felt, put up with anything, so long as he was seen and named.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"God, I love you."  
  
"Who let God into this?" teased Jon. "That was all me."  
  
Tracey gave his bare shoulder a mock-stern shove. "Nothing's slowing that mouth down tonight, I see."  
  
"Well, _something_ had to pick up the slack."  
  
"Fair enough." Tracey sobered. "Hon, I know it's just one of those things, happens to every man at some point, but...if there's anything I can do, or anything you want to talk about...."  
  
What could Jon say to that? _Well, babe, my dick is probably still a little gun-shy because I sent Stephen into a complete meltdown when I couldn't tell which of his alters I was about to slam it into. Oh, didn't I mention he has alternate personalities? And what's more, I'm starting to think maybe Stephen himself isn't real, or at least no more real than any of the other people running around in his head...._  
  
"Don't worry about it," he said instead, nuzzling his wife's neck. "Can I tell you something? This was about the least emotionally draining thing I've done all week."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_He's standing in his studio—not as it looks today, but as it looked eight years ago, when it wasn't_ **his** yet. It's definitely a familiar hall, but without any of the pictures of himself on the walls, he isn't at all sure which hall it is.  
  
He's dressed in what had once been his favorite pair of leather short shorts, and nothing else.  
  
He has to get out of here—but which way? If he can just get to wardrobe, he can put a show suit on. Or if he can get to his and Steve Carell's office, he can at least barricade himself in. But he doesn't recognize these doors, and any one of them could dump him onto a crowded set.  
  
Well, he can't stay here. That much is certain.  
  
He begins to walk down the hall.  
  
After taking several turns, he hasn't seen any familiar doors; but he hasn't run into any people, either, so that's good. Maybe his luck will hold. Maybe—  
  
He turns a corner and comes face to face with Jon.  
  
"There's a perfectly good explanation for this," he tries to say, but he can't get the words out, and it isn't as though he could have said anything to explain this anyhow. He stops short, panicking...  
  
...and Jon walks right by without giving him a second glance. Or a first one.  
  
He whirls around just as Jon turns a corner, and tries to follow; but it feels like he's wading through molasses, every step coming sluggishly after a long struggle, and by the time he reaches the corner Jon is far off in the distance.  
  
"Jon!" he calls, voice working again.  
  
No response.  
  
"How can you not notice this?" he shouts. "What's the matter? This not shocking enough? What if I took it off? You'd **have** to notice that!"  
  
The other man's stride doesn't even break.  
  
A wave of shame and regret rolls over him. What was he thinking? "Jon, wait! I didn't mean it! I know I'm not supposed to be like this! I'll get dressed, I promise! Which way are the suits, Jon?"  
  
Maybe Jon is leading him to the suits. Maybe that's it. Jon isn't abandoning him; Jon's just showing him the way. All he has to do is catch up.  
  
But no sooner has the thought come into his mind than his feet grow even slower; and the hallway seems to stretch as Jon walks down it, so that the harder he runs, the farther and farther he gets left behind.  
  
"Jon—wait—please, Jon—please—!"  
  
He trips, and falls, and no amount of effort seems able to wrest his head from the ground.  
  
"You don't care!" he screams, knowing it's wrong but unable to stop himself, as if someone else is shouting with his voice. Besides, if it'll make Jon turn around, it's worth it. "You don't care at all! You're just too high-and-mighty to have to say 'hi' to me in the halls! Just you wait! I'm going to have you taken down a peg! Permanently!"  
  
Someone switches off the lights. The linoleum under his feet is hard and cold.  
  
"I didn't mean it! I'm wrong! I'm sorry! I don't want you hurt! I'll be what you want! I promise! Just come back! Don't leave me! JON!"


	25. With A Little Help From My Friends

**September 11, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
"And here's another one! The worst one yet! Twenty feet of blank wall with not a picture of me in sight! It's an outrage, I tell you!"  
  
Tad would have been perfectly content to review the studio's portraits of Stephen without company. But his boss had somehow gotten the idea that it was far too important a task to be left to a lowly senior staffer, so the process was taking all morning, mostly because of Stephen's need to stop and shout for five minutes every time he found a new gap.  
  
"What kind of portrait would you like to be placed here?" he asked, trying to gently nudge Stephen towards the end of his unvarying rant.  
  
"What if someone got lost in here?" demanded Stephen, ignoring Tad's valiant effort. "What if someone ended up standing right here and didn't know where to go? How would they even know whose studio they were in?"  
  
_Maybe they could look ten feet to the left,_ thought Tad. By now, though, he was more than familiar enough with his boss to know that it would be futile to mention this out loud. To be fair, Stephen wasn't as jittery as he had been right before the break—and he certainly wasn't the terrifying wreck that had nearly made half the staff quit in the two days before he was hospitalized—but neither was he at his most stable, and Tad had no wish to be the one who next pushed him over theedge.  
  
"It's ridiculous!" continued Stephen. "If there's no indication on the walls of who the host is, this could be anybody's studio! Letterman's! Conan's! Olbermann's!"  
  
_Stewart's_ , added Tad to himself, though he wouldn't have said _that_ out loud for a million dollars.  
  
"Something with an eagle," Stephen declared.  
  
Tad jumped. "Ah, was that to me?"  
  
"Yes, that was to you! I want a picture of me with an eagle. Right here. No, better make it here. That way we can put a second me over—" He gasped, gritted his teeth. " _Not_ a second me. A second _picture_. Of the _same_ me. It's all _me_."  
  
"Of course it is," said Tad. The sooner Stephen was secure on this point, the sooner he would move on. "And what should the second picture be?"  
  
Stephen actually fell silent to consider this.  
  
"A nice big portrait of Tek Jansen," he said at last. "Something with aliens. And things blowing up."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 13, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
Being asked to step into the boss's office was like being sent to the principal: it only happened when you had done something wrong. Of course, at the _Report_ this often meant that something had gone wrong and the boss had found a way to blame you.  
  
"Maybe it won't be that bad," said Tad hopefully. "What does your Stephen-sense tell you?"  
  
"It doesn't think he's mad," admitted Bobby. "But it's been on the fritz lately. I figured he would be thrilled with yesterday's _Tek Jansen_ , and look how that turned out."  
  
The episode, first in a serial, had been all about how Tek stopped being an awkward, gangly, nervous young boy and started on his journey to become the most super-awesome spectacular man in the galaxy. Stephen lived for this stuff. And, yes, the wise old mentor figure who had gotten blown up in the second half was voiced by Stewart, but since Stephen had both written the script and cast the voices, that shouldn't have bothered him. Should it?  
  
"Ah," said Tad. "Well, if he fires you, we can always just elope."  
  
"And then we'd _both_ be broke and unemployed."  
  
"We could manage! The market for guitar-bassoon duos can't be too crowded."  
  
"Since when are you this reckless?"  
  
Tad shrugged. "I suspect you're a bad influence."  
  
Bobby smiled in spite of himself. "Just in case I don't make it back," he said, and pulled his fiancé into a light kiss before pulling away and entering Stephen's office.  
  
"That was pathetic!" whispered Tad after him. "Now you _have_ to come back alive!"  
  
And then the door was closed, leaving him alone to face Stephen.  
  
"You wanted to see me?" prompted Bobby cautiously. His boss looked subdued—glum, even—but at the moment Bobby didn't trust his own ability to judge what would set the man off.  
  
"Yeah," said Stephen quietly. "Sit down."  
  
There was a chair in front of his desk. Not a battered folding chair with metal bits sticking out at painful angles, or an overturned apple crate, or a "nothing's there, Bobby, why didn't you think to bring a chair of your own?", but an actual, honest-to-goodness chair. Bobby tried not to look flabbergasted as he took it.  
  
"I don't know if you've noticed," continued Stephen, drumming his fingers on the mahogany, "but I've been having a rough time of it lately."  
  
"I did have an inkling," admitted Bobby.  
  
Stephen winced. "Well, it's going to get better. Eventually. But maybe not for a while. It's just, you see...being with Jon, and taking care of George...it's stirred up a lot of things that I thought I had under control, and...."  
  
Shame? Internalized homophobia? Doubt in his skills as a parent? Anger over the years wasted trying to be straight? Fear of the earth-shattering implications of loving someone else more than his own life?  
  
"I have PTSD," blurted Stephen.  
  
That hadn't even been on Bobby's list.  
  
"Don't tell anyone?" added Stephen plaintively. "They'll just laugh. Or say things like 'Where does Colbert get off, thinking he has PTSD? The most traumatic thing he's ever been through is getting held up in a long line at Starbucks.'"  
  
"They wouldn't all say that," protested Bobby, though he was uncomfortably aware that the vast majority would. "A few of us were working at _The Daily Show_ on 9/11. For that matter, plenty of us remember the ghost."  
  
"'S true," allowed Stephen. "But those were group things...all of us in it together, you know. This was different, and it was personal, and I was alone, and...."  
  
He trailed off, eyes shining.  
  
"You don't have to talk about it," said Bobby quickly. "Not that I want to contribute to the culture of victim silence by making you feel ashamed to break it! But I also don't want to propagate the notion that your experiences are up for public consumption, especially since exhibitionist tendencies in survivors are so often exploited. Mind you, I'm not saying exhibitionism is not a legitimate kink in and of itself...."  
  
"Who said anything about kinks?" yelped Stephen.  
  
"N-no one! Sorry."  
  
"That's better." Stephen folded his arms. "I didn't call you in here to _talk_ about it, all right? I just wanted you to know. So if I make demands that seem a little weird, you'll figure that maybe it's because there's a trigger, and help me avoid it. Or if I act strangely, if, say, it looks like I'm regressing or something, you'll understand that I can't control it, and keep an eye on me. That's _all_."  
  
"Sure thing, boss. I understand."  
  
"Good," huffed Stephen. "You can go."  
  
Bobby half rose from his chair, then made a snap decision. "Actually, Stephen...? A couple of us are going out for drinks after the show tonight. Would you like to join us?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 15, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
As the plane taxied effortlessly down the runway, Charlene settled back in her first-class practically-an-armchair and let the thrumming of the engines run through her bones.  
  
There was still ground right below them, but in her mind's eye she could already see the endless expanses of cloud. In a few hours she would be on the other side of the country, with nothing but a small bag and the money in her wallet.  
  
"Charlene?"  
  
Stephen, meanwhile, had dedicated an entire suitcase to his tuxedo and the surrounding cocoon of tissue paper. One of these days Charlene was going to have to give her cousin lessons in packing light.  
  
"Charlene?" repeated Stephen, reaching across the broad armrests to poke her on the shoulder. "Can I practice my acceptance speech on you?"  
  
"Sure, Steve."  
  
"It's Steph _en_."  
  
"You didn't mind 'Steve' the other day."  
  
"That was then and this is now," said Stephen primly. "Do you want this special sneak preview or not?"  
  
Come to think of it, he hadn't called her 'Charlie' since then, either. Maybe it was some kind of mood swing? She made a mental note to ask about it when they were back in town. "I do. Let's hear it."  
  
"Of course you do." Clearing his throat, Stephen held up his hands to cradle an imaginary statuette. "I'd like to thank the Academy, for finally recognizing, after their atrocious slip-up last year, that I deserve this award. But really, folks, I would be remiss if I did not recognize all the hard work that has gone into this program. I'm talking about my work, of course. The work from me."  
  
Charlene waited patiently for the next line; then realized that Stephen seemed to have frozen, except for a twitch around the eyes. "Forgot your line?"  
  
"What?" stuttered Stephen. "I mean...yes! Yes, that's exactly...I...Charlene?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Stephen's mouth worked noiselessly for a moment; then he sighed through his teeth. "Did I pack my...you know...?" He mimed unscrewing the top of a bottle.  
  
"Of course," Charlene assured him. It was the second time he had asked. Third if you counted the note she had found stuck in her hairbrush, the one in the over-careful print written against the lines of the paper, urging her to remind him. "I checked twice. Don't worry yourself about it."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 16, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
As usual, Nancy snuck out of the ceremony a few speeches before the end. All of Steve's categories had come and gone, and she wanted to beat the post-awards rush for the bathroom.  
  
She was heading across the still-empty lobby when a familiar voice exclaimed, "Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like Nancy Walls, except older?"  
  
"That's funny," said Nancy, already grinning as she turned around. "Because you sound eerily like Stephen Colbert, only even more of a los—oh, geez, are you okay?"  
  
"Head hurts," admitted Stephen, though his visage wasn't so much pained as washed out, like a watercolor someone had left in the sun. "How could they give it to _Bennett?_ They have no idea how hard we...." He trailed off, eyes drifting briefly out of focus. "Is the room supposed to be zooming in and out like that?"  
  
"All right, you, come on." Linking her arm through Stephen's, Nancy steered him towards one of the doors. "I'm meeting Steve here in a minute, then we can all go get properly wasted somewhere without any cameras. Is your wife around?"  
  
"She's not my wife," muttered Stephen, his gait steadying as he leaned against Nancy's side. "She's my cousin."  
  
"Okay, we definitely need to get you out of here," said Nancy. "You can't just go around saying things like that. People find out you're unattached, they might take advantage of you."  
  
Steve was already waiting by the palm trees when they arrived, hair just starting to unstick enough that the cool night breeze tossed strands of it around. He caught the sound of Nancy's gait and smiled, then went stiff and upright when he spotted the man she was leading.  
  
"Colbert," he said, in the sort of tone the President might have used when running into him after a certain dinner.  
  
"Carell," echoed Stephen, squaring his own shoulders and matching the forced formality icicle for icicle. "Nice fake award you got tonight."  
  
"Well, Stephen, it's better than no awards at all."  
  
"Don't forget, Steve, that I gave you yours in the first place. A little gratitude might be in order."  
  
"Is that so. Because I seem to recall it being Jon Stewart's decision. You know—the man who always wins more than you."  
  
"Don't try to impress me with _numbers_. I can still render Jon Stewart completely invisible simply by standing in front of him. Kind of like the way your balls seem to disappear when put next to mine."  
  
"Is that how we're going to play this, Colbert? I see you're still bitter that you're not allowed to fuck my wife anymore."  
  
"Not as bitter as you are that you're not allowed to fuck _me_ anymore."  
  
Steve glowered, stony-faced as a granite cliffside. Stephen matched that too, except that his cliff came with finely arching eyebrows.  
  
"Now, boys," chided Nancy, beaming sunnily at her two companions. "You know the rules. No eye-fucking in the streets. You'll frighten the horses."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Excuse me...Mrs. Colbert?"  
  
"Just 'Charlene', please," said Charlene, who had spent the past twenty minutes dodging microphones held by people that eyed her dress like it was a cream tart, and getting more and more anxious all the while. "And you're Bobby, right?"  
  
The man with the thick glasses and a distinct lack of trophy labeled Outstanding Variety, Musical or Comedy Series did a double-take. "You remembered? It took Stephen eight months to get that down."  
  
"Stephen's not good with faces that aren't his," said Charlene ruefully. "Have you seen him, by the way?"  
  
"Uh-oh. That's what I was just about to ask you."  
  
Charlene shook her head. "Not since his last category. He told me he had a headache and needed some air, and he never made it back."  
  
Bobby tugged nervously at the cuffs of his slightly awkward suit. "And he hasn't called, or...."  
  
"Uh." Charlene blushed. "Would you believe I forgot that I have a phone? Hang on." She dug through the minature bag to retrieve the even more miniature phone (normally it felt like a tether, but she was suddenly relieved that Stephen had insisted). Sure enough, there was one new text from Stephen, which she showed to Bobby: _with steve and nancy. don't wait up._ "That wouldn't be the same Steve he and Jon decided to present the award to, would it?"  
  


  
"Yeah, that's him," said Bobby, looking relieved. "And Nancy's his wife."  
  
"So that's good, right?"  
  
"Well, ah, it should be fine," stammered Bobby. "Steve and Stephen have kind of a weird relationship, or at least they did when we all worked together. One minute they would be at each other's throats, disagreeing on everything, then the next thing you know they were backing each other up. Through some really rough times, no less. After a while you got the impression the fighting didn't mean anything."  
  
And didn't _that_ sound familiar. "Thanks for your help, Bobby. Will you excuse me? I've got to go make a call."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon had just finished congratulating everyone in his ever-more-award-winning cast and crew when Charlene descended. She had a lead on Stephen, but he wasn't answering his phone; since there wasn't a quiet corner in the building, Jon and Tracey ended up following her into one of the limos that were lined up outside.  
  
"He's probably okay, but it can't hurt to check," said Jon, as much to himself as to his nervous companions, as he watched his phone attempt to ring Steve. "And, uh, I should probably mention...Steve and Nancy and Stephen and Lorraine...they used to have, well, an arrangement."  
  
This drew a nod of understanding from Charlene and a puzzled frown from Tracey. "Does it matter? You don't think he would—"  
  
"It's not that I don't trust him," said Jon quickly. Steve hadn't picked up; he switched to Nancy's number and crossed his fingers. "It's just, well, he's vulnerable right now, and lately he's been..."  
  
Charlene picked up the end of the sentence: "...unstable."  
  
Each looked sharply at the other. "You know?" blurted Jon, at the same time as Charlene exclaimed, "He told you?"  
  
Tracey sat back with a resigned sigh. "Any time somebody wants to tell me what's going on...."  
  
"Hi!" chirped Steve's tinny voice. "This is Steve Carell's Celebrity Answering Service. The person you are trying to call is not available at the moment...."  
  
"In a minute, babe," whispered Jon, then snapped into the phone, "Carell, if you're jerking me around—"  
  
"Would I do that to the man who got me a fake Emmy?" deadpanned Steve. "Sorry I didn't get a chance to catch up, but some of us non-real-winners had to go lick our wounds in private."  
  
"Hey, I would play the world's tiniest violin for you, but it would be on basic cable, so nobody would see. Is Stephen with you?"  
  
Charlene leaned close to the phone; Jon tilted it so that she could hear Steve's reply: "That he is."  
  
Jon breathed a sigh of relief. "Where are you guys?"  
  
"Sorry, Jon. This is a private party."  
  
Was it too late to take back that sigh? "Can I at least talk to him?"  
  
"No can do. He and Nancy are _occupado_. If you know what I mean."  
  
"You know he's remarried, right?" stammered Jon, grasping for the one socially-acceptable, quickly-explained, instantly-believable reason to keep Tyrone (if it was Tyrone; if there weren't some other, straighter alter lurking even further back in Stephen's head) out of If-You-Know-What-I-Mean territory.  
  
"Sure do," said Steve cheerfully. "You know she's a beard, right?"  
  
As Jon's blood ran cold, Charlene motioned for the phone. Jon tilted it towards her, their ears almost pressed together on either side of it. "Mr. Carell? It's Charlene Colbert. The, um, the beard."  
  
"Mrs. Colbert! Good to meet you." Steve's voice dropped half an octave. "Stephen says you're lovely."  
  
"Thanks." Charlene sucked in a breath. "Mr. Carell, Stephen's on some medication. He needs a couple of pills every evening. If you were planning on keeping him overnight, I need to stop by and drop them off."  
  
"Well, why didn't you say so?" exclaimed Steve. "Our hotel is...."  
  
Jon repeated the address under his breath a couple of times. When the call ended, he went over it again to Tracey, who sat across from them with her head beside the window to the driver's seat. "Tell 'em to go straight there."  
  
"After stopping by ours," added Charlene.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
Frowning, Charlene held up her tiny purse. "You don't think I carry his meds around in this thing, do you?"  
  
"Wait, he's actually on something?" What could it be? The scan for kidney stones had come back clean, and there wasn't any medication that turned off DID....  
  
"You mean he _didn't_ tell you?" Charlene looked about as flabbergasted as Jon felt. "Then what did you think I meant?"  
  
"I—well—I, uh—"  
  
They were cut off by Tracey clearing her throat. Loudly.  
  
When she had silence in the cabin, Tracey slid open the window to the front of the cabin and repeated the address of the Comedy Central hotel. "And drive slowly, all right?"  
  
Shoving it closed with a firm click, she turned back to Jon and Charlene, fixing them each in turn with a look that took no prisoners. "Now, I think both of you have some explaining to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [a young Tek Jansen](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/164494/march-31-2008/tek-jansen---beginning-s-first-dawn--revisited); [trauma at Starbucks](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/156645/february-27-2008/threatdown---starbucks); [the fake Emmy win](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jepvThXCtVs); [the former Colbert/Carell arrangement](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-april-4-2001/even-stevphen---should-medical-marijuana-be-legalized-). Plus one more callback to [The Robert Report](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/69299.html).


	26. Chekhov's Alter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [these people are our friends](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/175029/june-26-2008/stephen-and-sweetness).

**September 16, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
Steve answered the door of the suite in a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, making Jon's rumpled suit feel all the more awkward. On the other hand, at least men's dresswear could moonlight as practical in a pinch: he could tell Tracey wanted to be tapping her foot, but her shoes hadn't been designed to make more than a runway's worth of steps in a row.  
  
"Jon," said Steve with mock stiffness, before smiling roguishly at his companions. "Ladies. I didn't realize this delivery required an entourage."  
  
"It's a long story," said Jon. "Hate to do this to you, Steve, but we really do need to see Stephen."  
  
"Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!" warned Steve, raising a warning finger as Jon tried to step forward. "Didn't I say something about that? _Occupado._ So if you could just hand me those pills and take your gorgeous trophies, and also your Emmies, and head right back the other direction? That would be great."  
  
Before Jon could respond, a door behind Steve creaked open and out stumbled Stephen: hair disheveled, feet bare, and in between clad in a long T-shirt that brushed his upper thighs and, evidently, no boxers. Nancy had his back, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding her own robe closed.  
  
He balked when he spotted the visitors, features snapping (switching?) through several different expressions of shock before settling on something helpless and horrified, face gone roughly the color of a dead clam. "Jon," he gasped, draggig at the T-shirt as if trying to stretch it down to a more respectable length. "Jon, this isn't—I didn't— _we_ didn't—"  
  
"Is that why you're doing this?" demanded Tracey, breaking from the pack to stalk forward, a jaguar in a little black dress. "You think if you convince Jon you have multiple personalities, you can screw anybody you run into—sorry, Nancy—and dodge the blame? I'm not going to let you treat him like this!"  
  
Stephen's expression twisted into a snarl.  
  
In the next second Tracey let out a yelp as the man leaped forward, teeth bared, hissing: " _Stop it. You'll make him cry. You horrible, horrible woman, stop making him cry._ "  
  
Steve barked a warning shout as he and Nancy jumped to grab Stephen's arms; Tracey stumbled backwards into the waiting arms of Jon and Charlene; and all of them gaped as Stephen's body writhed frantically in the Carells' grip.  
  


  
Jon wrapped his arms firmly around his wife's trembling shoulders. "I know you're scared," he said, locking gazes with whoever was glaring out of Stephen's coal-black eyes. "And I know you just want to keep Stephen safe. But you may _not_ talk to my wife like that."  
  
With infinite slowness the other man's violent panting began to ease....  
  
"...Oh, for god's sake, relax," he snapped, tossing his head dismissively. "Her bark's worse than her bite."  
  
The Carells released him onto his own two feet. Well, Stephen's two feet.  
  
"Shut the door, already," he huffed. "Not that I mind, but Stephen will throw a fit if someone walks by and sees the body in...." He surveyed his pelvis, shifting his hips experimentally. "Nancy, these _are_ your panties I'm wearing, right?"  
  
"Your clothes are on the chair next to the bed," said Nancy. "You can just throw anything you're done with in the green suitcase."  
  
"Oh, I wasn't complaining. Just checking."  
  
Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "Go put some pants on, Ty," he said briskly.  
  
"You folks want to come in?" added Nancy, smoothing down her flyaway hair and nodding to the interior of the suite. "We have drinks."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
With her head in Charlene's lap, her bare feet getting worked over by Jon's hands, and a half-finished glass of wine at her elbow, Tracey conceded that her night had gotten marginally better.  
  
She wasn't as optimistic about Jon, who not only hadn't touched his drink, but had lapsed into the kind of credulity normally reserved for three-year-olds hearing about Santa. "Just tell me," he stammered to the couple across from them, "did he...any of him...with either of you...?"  
  
Steve made a couple of spluttering noises. "What? Us? No!"  
  
"Of course not!" added Nancy, waving a hand.  
  
"Never!"  
  
"Not at all!"  
  
"Well, maybe a little." Steve looked to his wife for confirmation.  
  
"Just a smidge," agreed Nancy with a nod.  
  
"Hardly anything, really."  
  
"Believe me, Jon, if we had known you two had dibs...."  
  
"...we wouldn't have even _touched_ the twins."  
  
"Hang on," interrupted Tracey. "What do you mean, 'us two'?"  
  
" _Twins?_ " echoed Jon.  
  
"How many of him _are_ there?" fretted Charlene.  
  
Tracey looked up at her. "Don't tell me you buy into this."  
  
"How can I not?" protested Charlene. "Someone's been writing me notes that he doesn't remember. And then there's the way he changes...the way he's always changed...and besides, it sounds as if these two have known about it for years."  
  
"We never met a note-writer," admitted Steve. "Or, ah, the hisser. That one's new."  
  
"But it's not like we couldn't figure it out." Nancy smiled with the self-conscious cheer of someone who is almost embarrassed to say something this obvious. "I mean, how could you sleep with the man and _not_ notice how he changes? Come on."  
  
She nudged her husband with her elbow, and he joined in the grinning until Jon cleared his throat. "Uh, actually...."  
  
Both grins faded. "Oh," said Nancy.  
  
"We really didn't do much," added Steve, more subdued now. "The four of us—or three, depending on how you count it—fooled around on the couch a little. Before we could get any farther, the twins turned into the girl, and she just wanted Nancy to do her nails. That was when you called."  
  
"There's a _girl?_ " repeated Jon.  
  
"Yes, Stewart, there's a girl."  
  
Everyone's gaze snapped to the hall; Tracey had to sit up on her elbows for a better view. Stephen, or at least Stephen's body, was leaning against the molding that framed the entrance to the sitting room. The tailored trousers looked curiously out-of-place; you got the sense that he belonged in something skintight and leather outside a biker bar.  
  
"She doesn't like being out in the body much," continued whoever-this-was-supposed-to-be. "Can't say I blame her. Nancy's the only one who ever got her to feel comfortable in it."  
  
"Tyrone?" ventured Jon.  
  
"Still me," agreed Stephen. "Sorry to disappoint."  
  
"And you're, what, Stephen's evil twin?" said Tracey bitterly.  
  
"Oh, hell no. Stephen's parents aren't _my_ parents—and thank fuck for that, who'd want 'em? The twins are me and Caesar." In the kind of tone normally used for identifying members of boy bands, he added, "He's the straight one."  
  
"Have I met...Caesar...before?" asked Jon.  
  
"Nah." Stephen sauntered over to a lone armchair in the semicircle of couches and flopped down across the arms, _Pietà_ in a Boston College T-shirt. "He only comes out when we're duty-bound to get it on with a lady. Or Nancy."  
  
Steve chucked him fondly on the head. "You're an ass."  
  
"Dirty old man," countered Stephen.  
  
"Size queen."  
  
"Aren't they sweet?" put in Nancy.  
  
"And, for the record?" added Stephen. "None of us is tapping Jon's wife. Or, apparently, anyone else."  
  
"Because this, uh, girl pushed you out?" guessed Jon. "Or...did you decide, on your own...?"  
  
"You and your _questions!_ " exclaimed Stephen, massaging his temples with the ferociousness of a sculptor attacking a lump of clay. "You're like a jackal picking at my brain! We didn't fuck them, all right? You won! Isn't that enough?"  
  
Tracey swung her feet out of her husband's lap and sat up, tucking her dress into place along the way before putting a cautionary hand on Jon's leg. He covered it with his own and squeezed, but kept his eyes on Stephen.  
  
"Okay," he said. "I'm not angry, you know, just curious. If you don't want to talk about it, it's okay."  
  
Stephen fixed him with a suspicious glare. "What's your angle, Stewart?" he muttered under his breath.  
  
"There's no angle!" burst out Charlene. "Ste—T-Tyrone—this is _Jon._ You—Stephen—he—why is it so hard to believe that he cares about you? Are you going to start getting suspicious of me next?"  
  
"Of course not! That's different! Come on, Charlie, you know what grown-ups are like."  
  
Jon, who had yet to touch his wine, nearly managed to do a spit-take anyway.  
  
"Is that why you didn't tell me any of this?" stammered Charlene. "I grew up, now you don't trust me?"  
  
"No!" cried Stephen. "It's because I'm not your Steve! Don't you get that yet? I'm not even really your cousin—I wanted to keep you from figuring that out—I didn't want—I just—!"  
  
Charlene's purse slid from her lap as she jumped from the couch and ran to Stephen's side. He twisted away from her, pressing his face to the back of his chair; her hand hovered at his elbow with all the steadiness of a nervous hummingbird.  
  
"There's a lot I don't get about this," she admitted hoarsely. "But you're still family. No matter what."  
  
Eyes clamped tightly shut, Stephen fought for a couple of shaky breaths.  
  
Jon's own breath had stopped. Something told Tracey to let him be.  
  
Then, voice slightly muffled against the fabric of the chair, Stephen whispered, "Charlene?"  
  
"S-Stephen? Is that you?"  
  
"Mmhmm," confirmed Stephen. "Charlene, if I open my eyes right now, will I regret it?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Thank you," said Stephen gruffly, trying to remember not to snap at Steve (he hadn't taken advantage of Stephen, not really, had maybe even protected him from the worst of what Tyrone could have done). "For taking care of...you know."  
  
Steve kept his face deadpan as only he could, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he pressed Stephen's hand. "What are frenemies for?"  
  
Nancy kissed Jon's cheek, then Tracey's. "It was lovely seeing you again. If you ever want to come by...catch up, have dinner, maybe have breakfast...give us a call."  
  
The smile on Tracey's face didn't falter, but Jon couldn't miss the sudden tension in her shoulders, and put an arm around her waist. "I think this relationship has about as many people as it can handle," he said gently. "But we appreciate the support."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen followed the others down the hall, the flashback-images fading to reveal a world that looked more or less real, leaving nothing but a buzzing in his head and a lingering sense of crawling skin in their wake.  
  
"The pills can probably wait until we get back," Charlene was saying. "It's not too late. Although it's not supposed to be a big deal if you skip one dose, either."  
  
"Thanks," muttered Stephen. "For being on top of that. Tyrone doesn't bother with them. He says I'm the one that needs them, not him."  
  
They stepped outside into the cool open air. Jon had called two cars; Stephen hoped they would show up soon. The night felt far too big, dark and open, with a disquieting lack of red-and-blue columns or copies of his name carved in gold.  
  
"And do you?" asked Tracey. "I mean, are they helping?"  
  
"Dunno." Stephen swallowed. He should have been able to properly fume at the Academy's snub, should have soldered closed the gaping cracks of despair in a single blast of white-hot rage. Had the meds cut him off from that? If so, how was that _helping?_ Winning things and getting angry—it was what he did. Instead he had lost the time to Tyrone (and Caesar, now _that_ was a trip, standing outside his own body and suddenly getting what felt like a sharply targeted case of double vision), followed by someone he couldn't even see, followed by....  
  
"Because if there's any chance you'll start hissing at my kids," continued Tracey, "I want you on the best drugs money can buy."  
  
Stephen's heart skipped a beat. "She's not supposed to do that. She's just excitable, that's all."  
  
"Who is she, Stephen?" asked Jon softly.  
  
"I don't know," stammered Stephen. "She's always in the shadows, it's hard to see...." He closed his eyes for a few seconds, listening, until the word flew into his mouth. "Sweetness. Her name's Sweetness."  
  


  
Tracey and Jon both flinched. "The gun," gasped Tracey. "Honey, if he snaps like this when he has access to the gun—"  
  
"He won't," said Charlene.  
  
When every head, including Stephen's (now suppressing a shriek of indignation from within: _settle down, it'll be fine, these people are our friends_ ), turned to her, she blushed and looked at her hands. "Whoever's been writing me notes...they gave me the combination to the safe, asking me to change it. So I did."  
  
Jon breathed a sigh of relief. "Stevie."  
  
"Sounds right," grumbled Stephen. "Little tattletale."  
  
Before he could say any more, a taxi swung into the narrow arc of pavement that curved up to meet the hotel entrance. Jon patted Stephen's shoulder, in a way that was both encouraging and final, and Stephen felt a flash of panic: his own, for once. "Jon, can't I—stay with you?"  
  
"We're still on for next weekend," said Jon gently. "And we can have lunch during the week, too. I'll see you then."  
  
He pulled Stephen into a hug—a proper, manly hug, all in the shoulders, with a bit of back-slapping thrown in—but into Stephen's good ear he added, in a whisper, "Love you. Don't forget."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_He's dreaming again. He knows it this time because he is standing in the middle of his studio, and he is surrounded by busy staffers, and the audience box is full, and nobody's looking at him.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" he demands. "Is a camera not ready? Is a light broken? What's going on?"  
  
Nobody answers.  
  
"Are you listening to me?"  
  
They aren't.  
  
What if it isn't a dream?  
  
"You can't ignore me!" he shouts, voice ringing off the walls. "I'm—I'm—!"  
  
Bobby looks around the studio. "Do any of you know this guy?"  
  
And he looks from face to face and nobody recognizes him and nobody knows who he is_ and when he wakes up he himself has forgotten, even the clamor in his head has gone cold and empty, there's nothing left of him but a man-shaped hole in the world—  
  
—until he pawed through his things, digging on instinct like a burrowing animal, and tugged out a wallet. The streetlamp outside shone down on the faces of little Jon with his sweet boy-smile and Charlene who was safe in the next room and George William Colbert who had no idea the show existed but still giggled when its host was near.  
  
On the sofa by the window, the photos at his fingertips, Stephen slept until morning.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 19, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
"Bartender! Another round for the table, on me."  
  
"You really don't have to do that, Stephen," protested Bobby.  
  
Meg kicked him under the table. If she had to put up with the boss's company on what was supposed to be their regular Alcohol-Fueled Complaints About The Boss Night, she at least wanted him paying for the beer. (Even if he _hadn't_ gotten around to the spectacular post-Emmy-losing meltdown they had all been bracing for.)  
  
"No, no, I insisht," slurred Stephen.  
  
"See, Bobby? He insists," said Meg sternly. "Now stop complaining and pass the pretzels."  
  
"That's the spirit," declared Stephen, popping the last pretzel into his mouth. "Could learn a thing from her, Bobby. Thish is a lady who knows how to please her boss."  
  
"Hey, Stephen, the dance floor is awfully empty," said Allison in her matter-of-fact way, saving Meg from having to kick Bobby again, or possibly whatever poor soul had the misfortune to be in range of her Doc Martens. "Why don't you show off some moves?"  
  
Stephen made a stern face. " _Allison._ I'm an adult male heterosex'shal, and they're playing _Madonna_."  
  
"You're tapping your feet," pointed out Meg.  
  
"Am not."  
  
Meg was thinking about kicking Bobby again, just on general principle, when Stephen glanced at the floor and jumped like a small dog meeting a spider. "Hey, you're right!"  
  
Just how drunk was he, anyway?  
  
"Oh, fine," snapped Stephen, so testily that if Meg hadn't known better she would think someone else had tried to not-so-subtly boot him from the table. "One dance. But only one." He paused, as the opening bars of some synth-pop one-hit wonder released the year Meg was born reverberated over the omnipresent clinking of ice on glass. "Well, maybe two."


	27. Separation Anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book they're reading is _Unspeakable Truths and Happy Endings: Human Cruelty and the New Trauma Therapy_ , by Rebecca Coffey. Clips referenced: [the record-breaking season](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/103733/october-01-2007/intro---10-1-07).

**September 20, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
"Can I help?"  
  
Charlene nearly dropped the fabric softener. Stephen was standing in the door of the laundry room, looking with some trepedation at the heap of baby clothes piled on top of the gently thudding washing machine.  
  
"I could fold something," he said hopefully. "Or unfold something. What do you do in laundry rooms, exactly?"  
  
"You used to help me with chores sometimes," reminisced Charlene. "When I couldn't get away until they were finished. Sometimes including laundry."  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Of course not. That wasn't you in the first place, was it? Because you're the one who used to think all women like housework."  
  
Stephen flinched, but didn't deny it.  
  
Charlene leaned against the dryer, trying not to feel faint. It was one thing to have a complicated relationship with her cousin, but to know that their bond was not just tangled but fragmented, to be left sifting through the pieces in search of the person (people?) she had known...it was too much. A week hadn't been enough to absorb it. Maybe a year wouldn't be enough. Maybe the rest of her lifetime wouldn't cut it.  
  
"I saved you from bears, that one time," faltered Stephen. "That was me. Nobody else."  
  
"There aren't any bears in that forest!" cried Charlene. "There never were! It was coastal South Carolina, we were ten minutes from Aunt Patty's house, you could have brought back one of the grown-ups before I met so much as a squirrel! Have you ever done anything _real_ for me, Stephen? Was any of it you?"  
  
"I don't know!" shouted Stephen, loud enough to drown out the spin cycle. "I thought it was all me! Even if I didn't remember half of it, I thought my childhood was _mine!_ "  
  
His voice broke as his shoulders slumped, eyes pleading. Familiar eyes, no matter who was looking out of them.  
  
"I want to do things for you _now_ ," he continued. "But I don't know where to start. I buy you fancy clothes, you hardly ever wear them. I sing your praises on the show, even the Academy doesn't bother watching. I write you songs, you flee the country."  
  
"You can't just be _him?_ " blurted Charlene.  
  
Stephen's anger surged back in full force. "Well, fine!" he exclaimed. "If I'm not even good enough to do laundry with, then you can just do all the unfolding yourself!"  
  
"It's _folding!_ "  
  
"Whatever!" snapped Stephen, not even looking over his shoulder as he stormed away.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 21, 2007  
Friday**  
  
If Tracey hadn't seen Stephen's rapid shifts for herself, she never would have believed the rest of it. Although to be fair, it was hard to believe anything bad of Stephen when he was sitting calmly in broad daylight with George swaddled in a duck-patterned blanket in the crook of his elbow, every inch the Stepford Mister Mom.  
  
"Can I meet them?" she asked, hoping that was an appropriate question. (Why did Miss Manners never give any advice about this sort of thing?) "To get properly introduced, I mean."  
  
"They don't parade around on command," said Stephen bitterly. "Well, Tyrone might, but he's been hiding."  
  
He looked guiltily at everything but Charlene; Tracey, sitting hip-to-hip with her, put a comforting hand on her knee. Stephen was a challenge to parse at the best of times, but it was no struggle to figure out that Charlene was hurting.  
  
"It's probably best not to push any of them," noted Jon. "It'll just scare Stevie, and it sounds like this other one, the girl, doesn't like being out at all. I think Tyrone would take it as exploitative...maybe Caesar, too. I don't know about, uh, Sweetness." He turned to Stephen for confirmation. "Does she even like being out in the first place?"  
  
Stephen looked at him in surprise. "Jon? She's out now."  
  
Tracey scooted back half an inch before she could stop herself. It was some comfort that even Jon flinched at the revelation. "Y-you're her?"  
  
"She's not _talking_ to you," said Stephen impatiently. "She's just _listening._ And watching. Looking over my shoulder, because she's got my back." He shifted his grip on George, the better to wave vaguely at some invisible figure behind him.  
  
"I don't like the sound of this." Tracey didn't elaborate, but the thought went on: _At least the others sound related to Stephen, younger selves he could regress to. This just sounds like a hallucination._  
  
"Well, she doesn't like you, so I guess that makes us even," Stephen shot back.  
  
Jon put a warning hand on his arm; Stephen quieted, even managing to sink into only the mildest of sulks. "Does, ah, does she have anything to add? Or should we move on?"  
  
"Movin' on," affirmed Stephen. "To next weekend, for instance. The church is going to have a barbecue on Saturday, and I was thinking I would offer to host it here. Would that be okay?"  
  
It was surprisingly easy to settle into the arrangement of mundane details: how many people would come, what food they should provide, which doors would have to stay closed to avoid giving away how closely the Stewarts were entwined with the Colbert household. There wasn't even a fight over who would run the grill, just a token protest from Stephen about the need to reserve it for proper American cooking, to which Charlene replied tersely that she did _remember_ how they cooked in South Carolina, thank you very much; and Stephen promptly changed the subject.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 22, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
Jon opened the book at the increasingly frayed blue sticky note, where he made it through almost two pages before tripping up at a sentence that began _To be honest, I wondered whether Madeline was psychotic when I watched her shout warnings of danger—"Hey! Go back! Go back! It's not safe here!"—to the walls...._  
  
Stephen filled in the silence for him. "The author is stupid."  
  
"I wouldn't say that," hedged Jon. "She counters it in the next sentence, see? She's just admitting that she had some understandable human confusion to start off with."  
  
"Well, she shouldn't!" exclaimed Stephen, setting his jaw. "Why does she think people avoid talking about this stuff in the first place, huh? You can't blame us for holding back, not when we have no way of knowing who's going to go all reacting-like-a-human over it! So we're on lithium! So what? You can't get mad just because we didn't feel like letting the whole world know!"  
  
"Stephen, I'm not mad about that!"  
  
Stephen, and his eyebrows, jumped. "You're not? I mean, of course you're not. Why not?"  
  
Jon shrugged. "It's your business, isn't it? Yours and the doctor's."  
  
"I told Charlene." Stephen peered at him, hawklike, as if trying to spot the break in his cunning façade of nonchalant acceptance. "I didn't tell you, but I told Charlene. That doesn't bother you? Just the least little bit?"  
  
The book fell closed as Jon turned his full attention to Stephen, trying to project an extra helping of calm and reassurance to make up for the week he had evidently missed. "Stephen...did you think I'd be jealous? It doesn't work like that, I promise. You're allowed to confide in more than one person. There are things my brother knows about me that I've never told Tracey, and vice versa. It's good that you have two people to lean on. Three, if you throw Dr. Moreau into the mix."  
  
"Four," admitted Stephen after a beat. "Sometimes I talk to my priest."  
  
"Ah! That's good. I mean, I guess it's good. I'm not exactly the expert on priests, here. But if he's someone you can confide in, all the better."  
  
Stephen squirmed in his seat. "I thought you'd be upset that I wasn't trusting you."  
  
"You can trust me without telling me every detail about everything," Jon assured him. "Although, for the record? I'm not going to write you off as psychotic, no matter what medication you end up on."  
  
One of Stephen's hands inched over to give his a hopeful squeeze. "What if I yelled at the wall? Would you think I was psychotic then?"  
  
"You do that all the time anyway, right?" reasoned Jon. "Every round of Formidable Opponent. The way it looks in reality, I mean, before it gets green-screened."  
  
"But would you understand if I did it without the screen?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Because it feels the same to me either way," said Stephen in a rush. "It's like there's another me on the stage. It's really Stevie or Tyrone, but they look like me when they're out, and—I could do it right here, Jon, and you would only see one of me, but it would be the same thing—and you would get that it's not crazy?"  
  
"Of course," said Jon quickly. Sure, he might have some understandable human confusion, but he would get over it. That was close enough, right? "I'll understand."  
  
"Shut _up!_ " barked Stephen.  
  
Jon's heart skipped more beats than was probably healthy.  
  
"No. _No,_ " continued Stephen. "I don't have time for that right now."  
  
Oh. He hadn't been asking hypothetically.  
  
Jon watched with anxious attention, trying to picture (Stevie?) standing before Stephen, pleading in a voice that only Stephen could hear. It made the audible side of the conversation clearer, but, if anything, even less comfortable.  
  
"And it'll take even longer if you don't stop whining!" snapped Stephen. "Shake it off, Col-bert! Yeah, that's right. And stay there."  
  
After a few seconds of silence, he turned back to Jon, slightly flushed but with some of the tension drained. "Sorry about that," he said, beckoning at the dog-eared book. "We can go back to reading now."  
  
Jon's throat was nearly too dry to speak. "We can take a break, if you want," he said at last. "If there's something Stevie needs, you can go get it. You don't need to stay down here just for the sake of it."  
  
Stephen sank grudgingly back against the couch. "Stevie always likes it when you read."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Over the next half hour Jon turned pages one-handed while Stephen crept progressively closer, until his head was pillowed on Jon's shoulder.  
  
Halfway through a paragraph ( _They're not as clear cut. Soon they'll be a memory_ ), Stephen unclasped his hand from Jon's, the better to reach possessively across Jon's stomach. "I don't want to stop," he whispered. Stevie's voice.  
  
"Hey, honey," said Jon softly, draping his arm across Stephen's back. "We're going to have to go upstairs eventually."  
  


  
"Didn't mean reading," mumbled Stevie. "I meant _stopping_. Like the kids stopped being with the lady in the book."  
  
"They're still around," said Jon, trying to be reassuring in spite of a sudden stab of unease. The woman whose words he was reading had described two alters, both children, and was now implying that her healing would only be complete when both of their personalities had dissolved into hers. How long would that take for someone as deeply divided as Stephen? Was it even possible? "They're just combining into one person. They're going back to being whole."  
  
"Doesn't sound like it. Sounds like they're going away."  
  
"Yeah, it kind of does," admitted Jon.  
  
"Because we're _different_ ," insisted Stevie. "We like different things. We think different ways. Tyrone likes carrots, an' I don't. I like books, and Sweetness can't even read. Caesar does things with girls, an' Tyrone does them with boys. Stephen wants you to be his boyfriend, an' I—I—!"  
  
At a loss for words, Jon settled for rubbing comforting circles against Stevie's shoulder blade.  
  
He had a pretty good idea what the boy was getting at: Stephen brought out Jon's protective streak at the best of times, but with Stevie those feelings were downright paternal. How could he possibly elide that into his relationship with Stephen? To say nothing of the kaleidoscope of emotions he felt towards Tyrone, already confusing enough with their fractured mix of resentment and sympathy and fragile seeds of understanding. And then there were the alters he barely knew, and possibly more that he didn't know at all....  
  
"The woman in this chapter, she's just one case," he offered at last. It might not be right, but Stevie was clinging to him, a child seeking shelter from a nightmare, and he had to come up with something. "Even if this is what she needed, it doesn't mean it's right for you. Don't feel bound by it, okay? There must be other options. We'll keep reading until we find them."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 26, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
"Honey, about last night...."  
  
"Hm?" prompted Jon over the noise of the water.  
  
On the other side of the frosted shower curtain, the blurry silhouette of his wife was putting on foundation. "You think it's time to talk to a doctor? Or at least start answering some of those email offers with the really bad spelling."  
  
Jon let out a self-conscious laugh, the echo ringing on the tiles around him. "Do we have to do this while I'm naked?"  
  
"Believe me, there are things I would much rather be doing while you're naked."  
  
She was trying to make a joke; Jon sobered anyway, running hands through his hair one last time to make sure all the suds were gone. "Was it that bad? I thought you liked oral."  
  
"And don't you forget it!" exclaimed Tracey. "But it's not the only thing I want, you know? If it was, I probably would have just ended up with a woman in the first place."  
  
The handles squeaked as Jon twisted them, shutting off the water. As the last of it gurgled down the drain, he pushed a handful of the curtain aside and leaned out, sopping curls plastered to his head. "Are you, uh, serious about that?"  
  
His wife was squinting into the mirror to touch up her eyelids, making her expression hard to read. "Well...yes."  
  
"You never mentioned it." Or had she tried, and he had written it off? It wasn't like there hadn't been other important things he had ignored or dismissed in the nineties.  
  
"Why would I?" protested Tracey, now looking decidedly defensive. "There are lots of _ifs._ If I thought songs with three chords and more screaming than singing were the highest form of art, I probably would have married Barry Hopkins from the tenth grade. Does it matter?"  
  
"I guess not," admitted Jon, groping for a towel. "Listen, don't worry about it. I have faith in your continuing attraction to tiny neurotic Jewish men."  
  
Tracey's relieved smile was one of the finest things he had ever seen, and the last thing he wanted to do was put it in jeopardy. Well, second last. The very last thing he wanted to do was mislead her.  
  
"But I don't think Viagra's gonna fix this," he continued. "There's some stuff I need to talk to you about, okay? Once I have some pants on, I mean."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 29, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
The crowd in the backyard was modest, but twice as chattery as it had any right to be. Tracey could still hear the clamor inside as she pressed a bandage over the scrape on Nate's knee and sealed it with a kiss. "There we go. All better?"  
  
"It don't hurt!" insisted Nate. "I'm an astronaut!"  
  
"And a very brave one you are," agreed Tracey, managing to get in one good ruffle of his hair before her son scampered off to rejoin the other kids. It took some effort to resist the instinctive urge to lock him inside until he was bulked up in everything from a helmet to kneepads. (Maybe she could even have sold him on it as an astronaut outfit.)  
  
She did a quick mental survey before following him outside: was there anything she needed to do in the house? Food to bring out, maybe? Or would that seem too much like a hostess for someone who was supposed to be nothing more than a friendly guest?  
  
And was somebody crying?  
  
Tracey pricked up her ears. It was faint, yes, but somebody was definitely wailing. Not outside, either. Upstairs.  
  
_George._  
  
She took the stairs two at a time, sprinted down the hall, threw open the nursery door—  
  
—and breathed a sigh of relief. Stephen was already there, crouching in the middle of the beanbag chair for all the world like a mother eagle guarding her nest, rocking the sobbing infant hesitantly in his arms.  
  
"Hey," she said, when it became clear that Stephen hadn't even registered her presence. "Can I help with—?"  
  
Stephen's head snapped up to look at her, and the words died in her throat.  
  
Her gut worked it out first, but her mind quickly agreed: there was no mistaking that hard-edged stare. Could she get George away? Would he be dangerous if she tried? Or did George's wail mean it was too late?  
  
"The baby's crying," said Sweetness.  
  
It came out as a low hiss, not quite the animal snarl of a few weeks ago, but close enough to give her chills.  
  
"He won't stop," continued Sweetness. "It's okay. I've got him. I'll keep him safe. I told him. I told him and told him. But he's still crying."  
  


  
"M-maybe he needs something else," stammered Tracey, her parental autopilot starting to kick in in spite of itself. "Have you checked his diaper? It smells like he could use a change."  
  
Sweetness eyed her narrowly. "How? How does he get that?"  
  
"Stephen knows how," stammered Tracey. "If you could just get him back...."  
  
"He's scared," snarled Sweetness. "He'll cry. If he comes back right now he'll remember and he will hurt and he will cry."  
  
"O-okay. No Stephen. Right. Well, ah, do you want me to show you how?"  
  
Stephen's lip curled. "If you hurt him I will shoot you."  
  
"If you threaten me, I'll leave," snapped Tracey. "Do you want help or not?"  
  
After a moment of pontification, Sweetness decided not to call her bluff. "Help," he (she? it?) agreed. "Show me."  
  
On shaky legs Tracey stepped over to the changing table. Diapers. Wipes. Baby powder. It was all there, along with a fluffy towel that looked good as new. For that matter, maybe it was. Maybe Stephen bought fresh towels every time George needed changing. She wouldn't put it past him.  
  
"Lay him down here," she directed, once she had everything lined up. There was an eerie awkwardness about the way Sweetness moved, as if Stephen's body had been built with the elbows on backwards, and it didn't help that George wriggled frantically when he was let go. Still, he ended up more or less centered on the clean diaper she had laid out. "Now undo the old one."  
  
The whole scenario tumbled still farther down the edge of the uncanny valley as Sweetness tried, scrabbling at the tapes with fingers that that were frozen together, hands contorted into stiff, unmoving claws.  
  
"Do you want me to try?" stammered Tracey.  
  
Breathing hissily through clenched teeth, Sweetness edged away. "If you hurt him—if you—don't hurt him."  
  
A stirring of what felt unexpectedly like sympathy rippled through Tracey's heart. "Nobody's going to hurt your boy," she said. "I'm just undoing the fasteners, okay?"  
  
She narrated the rest of the process, every step slow and steady, though she kept her eyes studiously on George, the better to avoid Stephen's twisted figure. The baby's cries had reduced to sniffles by the time she taped the clean diaper in place; she retrieved a fresh wipe and dabbed the streaks from his face with exaggerated care, then, finally, looked up.  
  
Stephen's elbows were resting on the table, chin propped on his cupped hands, taking it all in with big eyes and a slightly thoughtful pout.  
  
"He should be fine for a while," said Tracey cautiously. "Did you get all that?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
The voice gave Tracey a start. Not only had it jumped to the highest register Stephen could pull off while still passing for natural, the prodigal Southern accent was back in full force.  
  
"You're good at that," continued definitely-not-Stephen, admiring and wistful all at the same time. "I bet you're a good mom."  
  
Just when Tracey had thought she couldn't possibly be more surprised. "I—I do my best," she allowed. "Do you want me to stick around? Or—or do you want to come outside?"  
  
"No!" blurted not-Stephen. "You can go. I'll just stay here. I can watch George, too. I'll be real careful, don't worry!"  
  
Tracey was abruptly and vividly reminded of the girl from the next building over, the freckly sophomore who babysat Nate and Maggie once in a while. "Sure. No problem. I'll be right outside, though, okay? If you need anything else, just, um, holler."  
  
Not-Stephen giggled, scooping up George with exaggerated care. "Sure thing, Miz Tracey."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**September 30, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
"Can I help?"  
  
Tracey breathed a sigh of relief. "Would you? I don't want him alone right now."  
  
Stephen hadn't imagined she would accept, much less this easily. But sure enough, she was patting Jon's shoulder with calm finality, while he stared blankly at a TV that had been switched off half an hour ago. "Did you hear that, hon? Stephen's gonna sit with you a while. I'll be back later, okay?"  
  
Jon managed a nod, so Tracey stood up and made way for Stephen to slide in next to him, close enough to see that his eyes were dull and glassy.  
  
"It's going to be fine, Jon," offered Stephen, using his most convincing Newsman Voice. "Everything's going to be fine. Jon, look at the bright side."  
  
At last Jon found his voice, though it came out a desolate moan. "The _bright_ side?"  
  
"Exactly! Think of it this way: the Mets just had a record-breaking season!"  
  
In the doorway, Tracey froze.  
  
Jon stared tearily at Stephen for a moment...  
  
...and giggled.  
  
"That's it!" urged Stephen, pumping his fist encouragingly at nothing in particular. "That's the spirit! Fight it! You can beat that gnawing existential despair. ...Unlike, apparently, the Mets."  
  
Jon collapsed against his side, helpless with laughter. As Tracey slipped out the door, Stephen even thought he saw her flash a discreet thumbs-up.


	28. Couples, Counseled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Dr. Rubin](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-february-4-2010/jon-consults-his-therapist); [Dan Savage](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/107307/october-03-2007/gay-roundup---dan-savage); [blacking out](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/247265/august-20-2009/stephen-s-sound-advice---how-to-make-babies); [Columbus Day](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/109227/october-08-2007/intro---10-8-07).

**October 1, 2007  
Monday**  
  
"So, uh, I guess I'm supposed to lie on the couch now?"  
  
"If you like," said Dr. Rubin reasonably. "You're free to wander around the room, if that's what strikes your fancy. I once had a patient who used to spend entire sessions working on puzzles. But most people just sit."  
  
"Amateurs."  
  
"I suppose that's one way to look at it."  
  
"Are you humoring me?"  
  
The doctor gave him a thoughtful once-over. "Would it bother you if I was?"  
  
"As long as you don't do it when I get to the serious stuff. And by 'serious stuff' I mean 'the sex I'm not having'. You know, like every other middle-aged neurotic Jew freaking out over his declining libido. Uh, no aspersions to present company."  
  
Dr. Rubin hm-hmmed over this, folding his hands together. "Do you think your worries are typical?"  
  
"Well." The thinning elbows of Jon's sleeves rested on his knees, hands twitching in abbreviated gestures as they dangled in the air. "A couple weeks ago, I triggered my partner so badly that he wouldn't let me touch him for days. I'm pretty sure they didn't cover that in _Annie Hall._ "  
  
The doctor didn't miss a beat. "And how did that make you feel?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 3, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
Lunch in Stephen's office had always been somewhat surreal, so Jon took it in stride when he found Stephen already wearing one of his show suits. He made himself comfortable on the couch, high-class grey-and-khaki ensemble and all, and tried not to drip soy sauce on the imitation leather.  
  
"Dan Savage is on today," remarked Stephen, trying to sound nonchalant as he picked at his eggroll.  
  
"'Zat so?" said Jon through a mouthful of flat noodles.  
  
"Mmhmm. He's one of the gays, by the way. Did you know that?"  
  
Jon swallowed, hiding a smile behind his napkin. "I've heard rumors."  
  
"It's not rude to say so, right?" asked Stephen anxiously. "I mean, it's just a fact. Can't be an insult if it's just fact."  
  
"Well, generally speaking," agreed Jon, treading with care. How many layers of meaning was Stephen pulling out of this? Certainly more than he could see. "If you were trying to make him feel bad about it, that would be another story. Careful," he added, as Stephen worried the end of a chopstick between his teeth. "You don't want to get splinters."  
  
Spitting out the chopstick, Stephen shoved his dish aside. Before Jon knew what was happening, the other man was snatching the half-full carton of noodles out of his own hands to drop it, metal fork and all, in the trash.  
  
"Ste—" spluttered Jon, as his immaculately besuited boyfriend straddled his thighs.  
  
"If I said _you_ were gay," began Stephen. He didn't finish the sentence, just arched his eyebrows expectantly.  
  
"Well, uh, you would be close," stammered Jon. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put his hands; he ended up resting them on Stephen's hips. "I'm somewhere in the middle. I mean, I'm gay enough to, ah, to want you, but straight enough that I didn't see it coming. This is still you, right?"  
  
"It's me!" cried Stephen, slamming the heels of his hands down on either side of Jon's head, polka-dotted navy-blue tie flapping wildly in the air between them. "It's _my_ studio. It's _my_ time. Answer me, Jon! You liked it? The gay stuff? Before I...before?"  
  
"Before," echoed Jon. "When I thought it was going well."  
  
Stephen gulped, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Did you? I was there for some of it, you know. I saw. Usually I just black out during sex, any sex, but this time I was there, and you...you looked so...." He brushed a hand against Jon's cheek. "So fragile."  
  
Jon managed an uncomfortable laugh. "Careful, you'll hurt my manly pride."  
  
Face falling, Stephen jerked away.  
  
"Now, hang on—I didn't mean—Stephen, you do realize this stuff is fragile for everyone, right? Obviously it's harder for someone who's been...shamed and used, the way you have. But sex isn't perfectly easy for anyone. Doesn't mean somebody did something wrong. It's just part of the human condition."  
  
"It's easy for Tyrone," muttered Stephen, chewing on his bottom lip.  
  
For the hundredth time, their conversations from that night ran through Jon's mind (every moment by now elaborated with mental footnotes for things he could have done better). "I don't think it is," he said softly. "I think he's as vulnerable as you are."  
  
"I'm not—!" Stephen stopped on the fly, course-correcting in midair before he repeated Tyrone's line syllable for syllable. "I _hate_ being vulnerable!"  
  
"I know, babe. I know."  
  
Stephen flinched. "And it's _supposed_ to be like that? And you knew? And you did it anyway?"  
  
"Well, yeah," said Jon. "Sometimes it's worth it."  
  
Stephen reflexively smoothed back his tie, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it fell away from his chest the instant he let it go. "Jon? Will you pull me closer?"  
  
"Sure." Jon slid his hands around Stephen's waist, clasping them against the small of Stephen's back, where they rested smoothly between the silk of his shirt and the even silkier lining of his jacket. "Is this okay?"  
  
"Fine! Just fine. Don't move."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Let me say this clearly: You should never attack someone based on sexual orientation and gender. You should attack them based on fear and anger."  
  
Dan inevitably got some flak whenever he appeared on _The Colbert Report_ , but to his own surprise, he kind of liked it. Raging homophobe though the host was, he never failed to start out charming and friendly; and even when he got hostile, he had such odd ideas that it was hard to take him seriously.  
  
"Besides, violence is never the answer," continued Stephen. "You can do far more damage pantsing them in gym class."  
  
See?  
  
Okay, Stephen favored indiscriminate shouting at people who disagreed with him; but that just made Dan especially proud when he managed to get a good explanation in edgewise.  
  
Once he had set up the segment, Stephen introduced his guest, waited for the applause to die down, then asked, "Why do we need expanded hate-crime laws? There are already laws that say I can't attack you! Why do we need to make this a hate crime?"  
  


  
Dan was well prepared for this one. "The pro-hate-crimes-legislation argument is really about pluralism. When someone targets a person because of their faith, or their sexual orientation, or their race, it's an attack not just against that person as an individual, but an attempt to terrorize the entire group. To make all African-Americans feel oppressed. To make all gay people feel oppressed. To make all Christians!—Christians are a protected class, under hate crimes legislation as it is currently passed. This is just updating it, adding sexual orientation—which would not only add an extra level of protection for me, but for you! If I—"  
  
"Excuse me?" demanded Stephen. "What are you insinuating?"  
  
(What was that—five, six sentences before he had interrupted? That had to be some kind of record.)  
  
"I'm insinuating...." Okay, Dan had his suspicions about the man, but they hadn't affected his argument. "...that you're a heterosexual. Are you rejecting that?"  
  
Stephen froze.  
  
His composure was impressive. Only a muscle in his jaw twitched, so small that probably no one but Dan would notice.  
  
_No. No way. He's a heterosexually-identified married homophobe. He hasn't softened his attitude towards homosexuality recently. He hasn't even been caught with a gay hooker. He is **not** going to come out right now.  
  
Is he?_  
  
"...you know what?" said Stephen, breaking the too-long pause.  
  
"What?" prompted Dan, by now dying with curiosity.  
  
"I am... _secure_ enough," said Stephen, slowly, as if dipping his verbal toes into this idea to see how it felt, "in my sexual orientation...that I do not need to... _defend_ it...from you. That's right. What do you think, audience? Do I need to prove anything to this man?"  
  
The crowd in the stands burst out in a combination of various _nays_ and indiscriminate applause.  
  
Stephen threw open his arms to the crowd, which broke into cheers; he basked in these for longer than was strictly necessary, then shut them off with a wave of his hand. "There," he said triumphantly to Dan. "What do you think of that?"  
  
"I think," said Dan, "that that was a much better answer than I expected."  
  
"Really? Cool! —Not that I need your approval, or anything."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 4, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
With a scream and a crash he landed on a floor that seemed much too cold.  
  
_Hold still. Don't cry. Don't be a nuisance._  
  
Where was he?  
  
_(Shake it off, Col-bert!)_  
  
This was it. He had pulled out one plank of his existence and the rest had come tumbling down after it and now he was _nothing_....  
  
"Stephen? Are you okay?"  
  
"Ch-Charlene?" croaked Stephen. Had his tongue always been so heavy? "Is this my room?"  
  
"Of course it's your room. Can I come in?"  
  
Stephen didn't answer. He was too busy clutching the blanket around him, concentrating on the texture, building up the solid and present scene around him. His room. His bed. His house. His fortress.  
  
"I heard you scream," ventured Charlene, crouching beside him in the dimness. Even the moon was hiding; the only light was the bright red digits spelling out _2:48_ on the nightstand.  
  
"Nightmare," whispered Stephen.  
  
"But you're okay now?"  
  
_I'm fine. Never better. See me shake?_  
  
"C-cold," choked Stevie.  
  
Charlene jumped to her feet with palpable relief. "I'll make you some cocoa."  
  
She was gone before Stephen could plead _Don't leave me alone._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," murmured Stephen, staring at the half-melted mini-marshmallows bobbing on the surface of his cocoa. "About me. Us. Father Ted said we should."  
  
Across the kitchen table, Charlene cocked her head. "Your priest knows?"  
  
"He knew we were keeping a secret. He doesn't know about 'we'."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"A-and I'm sorry Tyrone won't come out," her cousin continued, hands wrapped tightly around the _Blue's Clues_ mug. "I think he's embarrassed. I think. I didn't know he could _get_ embarrassed."  
  
"Steve was good at hiding it," admitted Charlene, stumbling over the third-person pronouns addressed to the second-person face. "I usually saw through him, though."  
  
"Like Jon sees through me."  
  
Charlene broke into a mild coughing fit.  
  
"Shake it off, Col-bert," added Stephen sharply. "It's too hot. You'll burn your tongue."  
  
"Is that Stevie?" echoed Charlene. "The little one?"  
  
"Uh-huh. He wants the cocoa."  
  
"Can I say hi to him?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
Any other time, she might not have gone with it. But at three in the morning and half-asleep herself, she was just floaty enough to say, with perfect seriousness, "Hello, Stevie. How are you this morning?"  
  
"Fine, thank you ma'am."  
  
For Charlene, whose own accent had morphed and curled as a dozen different languages flowed into her vocabulary, the unfettered South Cackalakian was a jolt to the ears. "Good. That's good," she stammered. "Do you know me?"  
  
Were her eyes playing tricks on her, or had Stephen's eyes gotten bigger? "I used to play with you," he said dutifully. "You taught me how to make googley-eyed clams."  
  


  
All at once Charlene was wide awake. "You remember that?"  
  
Stevie cringed, the blanket around his shoulders looking suddenly far too large for his frame, like it might fall over and envelop him.  
  
Then he sat up, straighter than before. "I _knew_ that didn't sound like me," he muttered triumphantly, the newsman accent firmly back in place.  
  
"So he was there too? Some of my Steve was him?"  
  
"Of course some of it was him," huffed Stephen. "What makes you think none of it was _me?_ He's supposed to be a part of me, right?"  
  
Charlene leaned forward, elbows crumpling the tablecloth. "Stephen, if you're stringing me along...."  
  
"I'm not! I swear, I'm not!" cried Stephen. "I _can't_ be. Because I care about you! That had to come from somewhere, right? So what if I don't remember much? Lots of people have repressed memories, even when they have just regular old PTSD and not—not _this._ It doesn't have to mean anything!"  
  
It was still Stephen's voice, but again he looked as small as Stevie had, a child huddled in the dark and shouting to keep the monsters at bay. Both of them present, she realized, different but linked. On some level they were all tangled together, even if none of them could reach that deep.  
  
The feeling of looking at an imposter in her cousin's body—a cloud that had shadowed her long before there was any diagnosis to give it shape—began to evaporate.  
  
"Does it help at all when we reminisce?" she asked softly. "When we talk about things we used to do together, I mean. When I fill in the parts you don't remember."  
  
"Dunno," mumbled Stephen.  
  
"I like it when you tell me stories," added Stevie shyly.  
  
"Don't bother her," chided Stephen. "Drink your cocoa."  
  
One or both of them gulped down a mouthful, leaving a line of foam on their upper lip.  
  
"Well, I think I'd like it too," confessed Charlene.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 8, 2007  
Monday**  
  
As the rehearsal finished, Stephen sat back in his chair, crossed his heels on the C-shaped desk, and flipped through the script. _That went well! A little celebration of Columbus Day, a little praise of the Pope, a little kid-friendly backing of the President, a little support of Rush Limbaugh, and a congratulation for Dr. Moreau on her brand new Nobel. All in a day's work._  
  
Then, slowly, tentatively, he reached out to Stevie. _You want to try some of this?  
  
"Me?" squeaked Stevie.  
  
"Yes, you! If you're going to be staying around, you need to learn to behave like a grown-up. Which means working for a living. Which, if you're me, which you are, means shouting at people who disagree with you."  
  
"Can't I please just say how Dr. Moreau's awesome?" begged Stevie. "I liked that part."  
  
"No. You understand why these things need to be shouted about, right?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"So why can't you—? Hang on. Do you disagree with them?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"All of them?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Why!?"  
  
"I'm sorry!" yelped Stevie, and tried to hide._  
  
Stephen took a deep breath. Then another. _"What if I said you could change something on here?"  
  
"...really?"  
  
"One thing!" added Stephen quickly. "And you can't say anything unpatriotic. Or un-Catholic. And you can't imply that I've reconsidered any of my past opinions. Because it's still my show."  
  
"Then what am I s'posed to do?"  
  
"How should I know? You're the one who thinks all the time! Think of something!"  
  
"Okay!" cried Stevie. "Let me think about it!"_  
  
So Stephen eased back and let Stevie flip through the script.  
  
At last the boy said, "Well, I don't think Columbus was so great."  
  
"Why not?" demanded Stephen. "You got something against discovering America?"  
  
"No! I love discovering America!"  
  
"Then why would you belittle the great American hero who—"  
  
"He wasn't American!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"He wasn't! He was Italian! An' there were already people in America when he got here!"  
  
Stephen did a double-take. "Wait, really?"  
  
"Really!"  
  
"Well, then, this is going to have to change," declared Stephen. Yanking the cap off his pen with his teeth, he spat it off to one side and started drawing a series of thick blue lines through the first page.  
  
"Um, Stephen?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I think people are staring."  
  
Stephen looked up. The camera crew, roadies, and interns were all suddenly preoccupied with their shoes, the ceiling, and assorted other non-Stephen parts of the room.  
  
"Bobby!" called Stephen. "Was I just talking to myself?"  
  
The stage manager jumped. "Uh, that's what it looked like."  
  
"It's just Formidable Opponent!" shouted Stephen to the room. "Stop acting like you haven't seen it a million times!"  
  
"No problem, Stephen," said Bobby. "Um, were you just striking part of the script?"  
  
"Yes," announced Stephen definitively. "Yes, I am."  
  
"Are you going to replace it with a Formidable Opponent? Because you know you're supposed to tell the writers when you do that...."  
  
"No, no, don't worry about it. I'll wing it."  
  
"If you're sure, Stephen."  
  
"I'm _always_ sure." Then, clamping his mouth closed and holding his breath so that Stevie's whimpers couldn't escape, he thought sternly, _See? It'll be fine. Stop freaking out. I'll even handle the shouting. You just tell me what to shout._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 12, 2007  
Friday**  
  
Standing next to the baby-products shelf with a cart full of diapers, Stephen patted George's head. "Just a little longer, baby boy," he soothed. "Hang in there."  
  
George whimpered his discontent. Stephen rocked back and forth on his heels until the fussing settled.  
  
"I'm going to walk around all the aisles now," he said under his breath, trying not to feel self-conscious. Anyone watching would assume he was talking to the baby. "So the rest of you can have a chance to pick things out. If you see something you want, just grab it. I'm not promising I'll buy it. But grab it anyway."  
  
Still jiggling the sling that cradled George, he pushed the cart forwards and tried not to think too hard. That, at least, posed no trouble.  
  
When he got to the end of the last aisle (laundry detergent on one side, jars of peanuts on the other), Stephen stopped and gaped at the cart. There were snacks stacked on top of the diapers, stuffed animals crammed in between the band-aids and cotton swabs, hair gel piled next to the toothpaste; in the lap of a plush black cat was a hollow plastic pumpkin, just the right size to hold enough Halloween candy to send a small child into insulin shock. Picking up the pumpkin, Stephen found that it had been stuffed with four sheets of stickers, a box of Trojans, and a vial of glittery pink nail polish.  
  
"I am _not_ getting any of this junk," he said out loud. "Especially not... _that_."  
  
He glared reproachfully at a bright orange stuffed bear, picking it up by its candy-corn nose with the distaste normally reserved for...well, George's diapers.  
  
_Oh, fuck you, Colbert,_ snapped a voice in the back of his head.  
  
Stephen was so startled that he dropped the bear. "Tyrone?" he blurted.  
  
Static. Silence and static, a low flood of white noise that seemed to be composed of Stevie sniffling over the teddy while Sweetness hissed at it.  
  
"Fine," muttered Stephen, snatching it up and perching it on top of the shelf of detergent. "We're still not getting the bear. But we can get the cat. And the stickers. And some of the food. Only not the Baconnaise, because Jon will have a pre-emptive heart attack. Are you happy now?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 13, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
"It feels good when I talk with her," said Stephen cautiously, laying the words methodically down as if he meant to knock each one to check whether they were hollow. "Sometimes. Other times it feels like I accidentally drank one of my sponsors. I mean the beer sponsors, not the Axe Body Spray. Although I wouldn't be surprised if they taste about the same."  
  
"Working through our wrongdoings can be a painful process," replied Father Ted from the other side of the screen. (Stephen had never realized priests knew so _much_ beyond how many Hail Marys to hand out.) "Nobody ever said the path to Heaven would be easy. Only that it would be worth it."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"I do. And if you ever find something too difficult to talk about on your own, you're welcome to invite her here for couples counseling."  
  
Stephen choked back a decidedly unpious snort. The idea of having someone sit down with him and Charlene and ask sober questions, which would doubtless include So How About That Conjugal Bed! and Have You Started Thinking About Bringing More Little Catholics Into The Fold? (Not that George wasn't a perfectly valid budding Catholic, mind you. But there were more than a few parishioners who gave his baby funny looks when they thought Stephen wasn't paying attention.)  
  
"She has this, uh, friend," he blurted. "A guy she's known since they were kids. And, well, I don't like the idea of them hanging out. I don't think he's good for her. Is that wrong of me, Father?"  
  
"You can't control your wife's friendships," the priest said gently. "Are you concerned that there might be romantic feelings between them?"  
  
Now Stephen really did laugh. "What? No! Don't be ridiculous. They're—he's— _she's_ —he sings for the other choir. If you know what I mean."  
  
"I see." Father Ted's voice was grave. "I realize this can be troubling, my son, but the Lord calls on us to meet homosexuality with love, not fear."  
  
"H-He does?"  
  
"He does. No one among us is without sin, after all. And perhaps an association with a healthy, loving marriage will prove to be just what this man needs to guide him back to the right path."  
  
Before he could agree, Stephen's head was flooded with Stevie's voice, riding on a wave of Stevie's hurt and fear. _"I don't like it here. He's scaring me. Jon wouldn't say that. Jon would hug me and tell me it's all right. Where's Jon?"  
  
Shake it off, Col-bert!_ ordered Stephen. _Jon's at home. And we're not going there now, because I'm busy!  
  
"I can't stay here!" wailed Stevie. "You can't make me stay!"_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He tripped over a gnarled root and stumbled down the grassy slope, skidding to a halt as he reached the sidewalk that bordered the parking lot.  
  
Sunlight. Fresh air. The stone walls of the church behind him, and Sandy Schill who ran the nursery off to the right, shepherding her cross-looking eight-year-old towards its doors. She gave her fellow parishioner a friendly nod, which Stephen returned automatically, though the sulk on her daughter's face was more than enough to set Stevie trembling all over again.  
  
_I don't have to go back in,_ Stephen told himself, striding firmly towards the car as if that had been his plan all along. _I got most of the confessing done. It probably counts. And I can miss the service, just to be sure. I'll say I got sick. Or George got sick. Who knows? Maybe he even will. I'd better stay home with him, just in case. I don't have to come back at all...until next Saturday._  
  
Not fooled for an instant, Stevie let out an internal sob the instant that plan tried to sneak by.  
  
_I won't even make it home if you keep panicking like that!_ thought Stephen desperately.  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut, he shouted back into his own mind, as loudly as he could: _Will someone in there please hug Stevie for a while?_  
  
Whether Tyrone or Sweetness or somebody else responded, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that by the time he got behind the wheel the panic receded, the sobs in the back of his head dwindling to sniffles.


	29. Well, Stephen's Just This Guy, You Know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [what happens with hammers](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/172957/june-09-2008/democralypse-now---hillary-concedes); [custom boxers](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182588/january-29-2007/stephen-colbert-day); [November, 1982](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/156268/february-07-2008/better-know-a-lobby---gay-lobby-pt--2); [ThreatDown: food](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/118639/october-17-2007/threatdown---anniversary). The list featuring origami is in _I Am America_.

**October 13, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
Jon and Tracey returned to the house at the same time: she with the dogs, he with groceries. "Here," offered Jon as she struggled with the leashes, "I'll get the door."  
  
"Grocery shopping without Charlene?" teased Tracey as he held it open. "I'm surprised you remember how to do that."  
  
Charlene herself was at the kitchen counter, kneading dough and up to her elbows in flour. Nate stood on a chair next to her, rolling a stripe of dough into a snake; Maggie, in her highchair, was sculpting something far more postmodern, in the sense of "postmodern" that meant "incomprehensible." Stephen was breadless, baby monitor at his elbow, deep in conversation: "Fourth grade?"  
  
"Right after Penny was born," agreed Charlene. "She got some kind of respiratory infection right away, and, well, it was expensive. Hi, Jon. Did you get the parsley?"  
  
"Well, you didn't tell me _that_ ," protested Stephen. "I never would have said your father just needed to stop slacking and get a better job if I had known about _that_."  
  
"You didn't mean it, though," said Charlene, as Jon dug through the bag of groceries. "Any time I came in without lunch, you flirted with the cafeteria ladies so they would give you extra Tater Tots."  
  
"I was a charming kid," agreed Stephen with a fond smile. "Don't remember that, but it sounds like me. Definitely not Stevie. He hoards. Doesn't that sound like me, Jon? Charming?"  
  
"Could be," hedged Jon, retrieving the container of parsley. "Charlene, do you need me to—"  
  
"Daddy, look what I made!" interrupted Nate, turning around so fast that his elbow banged into the tin of flour. The lid clattered to the floor, a stream of white powder pouring down in its wake.  
  
As the dogs trotted eagerly in to see if anything interesting had spilled, Jon took a hasty step back, waving away the billowing cloud of dust. "Honey! Do you know where I left my inhaler?"  
  
Through his watering eyes he saw Tracey appear at his side. "Pocket of your coat, dear," she said, giving him a gentle tug in the right direction. "Char, can you hand me a washcloth? Nate, come help Mommy clean this up. Then you can show me what you made, all right?"  
  
Back in the front hall, Jon sucked down a hit of Venturil more quickly than was strictly recommended, anxious to return to the heartwarming tableau unfolding in the kitchen. At least, until he caught sight of Stephen's figure making a beeline for the backyard.  
  
Grabbing the plush blue coat off its hook again (how he had come to own a piece of clothing with so much color, he would never know), Jon followed, shrugging it over his shoulders as he pushed open the screen door and stepped out into the crisp, cloudy afternoon.  
  
"Tyrone?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Oh, for god's sake," muttered Tyrone, flopping down on one of the wicker chairs and propping his heels against the deck. "How could you tell?"  
  
From a safe distance (right next to the doorway, where he slouched like he was uncomfortable taking up too much space, never mind that he was already small enough that the cuffs of his chinos were pooling around his ankles), Stewart half shrugged. "You didn't take the baby monitor. Stephen would have."  
  
"And you came here to scold me?" Tyrone tried to fold a lascivious edge into the words; they came out burnt-edged and bitter instead.  
  
"Came to see if you were all right," corrected Stewart.  
  
"Stephen wasn't triggered, if that's what you mean," lied Tyrone. "I just couldn't sit there anymore and listen to him take credit for things he didn't do."  
  
"So why run off? Why not stay up there, set the record straight?"  
  
"Why bother? So I'm not just a kinky cheating fag; I'm a kinky cheating fag who's been selling himself since he was in short pants to batty old women with hairnets. Big whoop."  
  
"It _is_ a big...uh, deal," protested Stewart. "You were doing it to help someone else. You're not the selfish hedonist you pretend to be."  
  
Tyrone bristled. "When did I ever say I didn't care about Charlie? It's the rest of you I can't stand."  
  
Stewart gave him that _look_ , the one with the pout and the hangdog eyes, and Tyrone suppressed a shudder. What was wrong with him? This had to be some shame of Stephen's leaking through. He'd stripped for plenty of cameras, bared every inch of himself and then some, without so much as a blush; he had no excuse to start feeling naked _now_.  
  
"What about Steve and Nancy?" asked Stewart. "Because they care about you, you know. All of you."  
  
What made him think he had the right to talk about Steve and Nancy? "That's your idea of logic? Bring up the people I tried to fuck behind your back to prove how selfless I am?"  
  
In spite of a perceptible wince, Stewart remained maddeningly unruffled. "It didn't feel great, I'll give you that. But hurting me wasn't the point, was it? It wasn't really about the sex, either. Stephen didn't win the awards he was hoping for, so you went out and got him a different kind of affirmation. Quality time with old friends."  
  
Tyrone folded his arms, partly out of defiance, partly because, well, it was chillier out here than he had realized. "What makes you think it's all about him?" he demanded. "Maybe _I'm_ the one being protected here. Ever think of that? Maybe he's Zaphod Beeblebrox. The idiot front who keeps us from getting taken down by the authorities, because he's been lobotomized so he can't think anything subversive."  
  
That at least earned him a flash of Stewart's worried-puppy face, all sad blue eyes and surprisingly biteable pursed lips. "Is that true? Are you the core? The original Steve Col-bert?"  
  
"Wouldn't _that_ just blow your mind," smirked Tyrone, before hugging himself against the chill. Not the most convincing misdirection, but he was too busy shivering to come up with something better. (Hadn't it been late summer just the other day? Why couldn't time ever pass normally...?)  
  
"You want a coat?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You look cold," explained Stewart. He jerked his thumb towards the door. "Want me to grab you a coat?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Tyrone was leaning on the porch railing when Jon returned. At least, he supposed it was still Tyrone, given the way the man's pose was subtly sultry even while hunched over and shivering. He made no acknowledgment as Jon approached, so Jon moved to drape the coat over his shoulders.  
  
"Idunowifumthul," mumbled Tyrone.  
  
Jon was so startled that he nearly lost his grip. "Sorry, what?" he stammered, fumbling to regain it.  
  
"Are you deaf, old man?" snapped Tyrone, grabbing the coat and hugging it around himself. "I _said_ , I don't know if I'm the original! Don't know if I'm even the original _me_."  
  
The tone was different from his usual brusqueness. In the moment it reminded Jon of nothing so much as Stephen's: trying to prod Jon into some important understanding, but cloaking it in anger and disdain and defensiveness, so that if he reacted badly he would do so at arm's length.  
  
Come to think of it, in this light, everything about Tyrone seemed Stephenish. He had the same furiously defended pride in his achievements, the same disdain and anger, the same rigid-but-fragile emotional walls. The fact that his achievements were (homo)sexual and his condescension turned on conventional morality only made it like looking at the negative of a photo: even with the colors reversed, it was still the same picture.  
  
"Your memories go back a long way, don't they?" asked Jon, resting his elbows on the cracked white paint. "I mean, you remember the fourth-grade lunches."  
  
"Well, sure," said Tyrone. "But I don't know if I was _there_ , or if I just...inherited the memory from someone. First time I remember being out as _me_ was November '82."  
  
"Something significant happened in 1982?" guessed Jon, trying to work out the ages in his head. He would have just turned twenty, which would make Stephen—  
  
"That was when I started fucking the history teacher."  
  
Jon's heart clenched painfully in his chest.  
  
The other man threw him a forcibly nonchalant glance, rolling his eyes when he took in Jon's reaction. "All the freaky sex you know I've had, and this is the one that bothers you?"  
  
"You think I'd blame you," murmured Jon, chilled in a way that had nothing to do with the frost in the air. "He took advantage of you. Do you understand that? It's not your fault."  
  
"Of course it's my fault!" exclaimed Tyrone, more incredulous than anything else. "I'm the one who started it! He had given some big test, and whoever switched in to take it wasn't the one who had been studying. So after school I came out, tracked the old queen down, and made him an offer he couldn't refuse."  
  
Jon balled his hands into fists. "Of course he could refuse. That's part of his job. Even if you were a legal adult, you were still a student, and not in great emotional shape if you were switching so much—" A thought struck him, cold and piercing. "—and were you even an adult then? Your body was eighteen, but you're younger than it is, aren't you?"  
  
A muscle in Tyrone's cheek twitched. "Don't look so worried. I'm legal _now_. You're in the clear."  
  
"But still awfully young," guessed Jon. A stray lock of hair had fallen in the other man's face; without thinking, he stretched out a hand to smooth it away. "There haven't been a lot of adults you can rely on, have there?"  
  
Tyrone flinched. "Stop that!"  
  
Jon pulled hastily back. "Stop what? Touching you?"  
  
"No!" cried Tyrone in frustration. "Stop being so fucking _gentle!_ If you would drag me out behind a dumpster and cover my mouth and have your way with me, I could deal with that! What am I supposed to do with this?"  
  
"All the dangerous sex you've had, and you're scared of someone being nice?" countered Jon.  
  
"That's not what I'm scared of!"  
  
"Then what is?"  
  
"I—!" Catching his mistake a step and a half too late, Tyrone faltered, then tossed his hair and took the plunge. "What do you think's going to happen when you've had enough, huh? When it finally hits what a trainwreck we are, and you realize you can't deal with it anymore? Stephen's already on the verge of cracking up trying to feel things he's not supposed to feel about you! Haven't you done enough damage already?"  
  
While Jon was struggling not to reach for him again, and, moreover, not to freeze up entirely at the thought of the worst-case scenario, Tyrone clouded over and Stevie burst through. "I wanna play with the dogs, Jon. Can I play with the dogs?"  
  
Jon's heart skipped a beat. "Hi, honey. Are you okay?"  
  
"Uh-huh." Hands tucked close to his chest, Stevie looked anxiously out at the bull terriers tethered in the yard. "Can I, Jon? Please?"  
  
With gentle grace Jon smoothed back his hair. "Of course."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 15, 2007  
Tuesday**  
  
"Okay, maybe I don't know what you want," said Stephen to the mirror.  
  
Nothing but his own disheveled reflection looked back at him. If Tyrone was listening, he wasn't letting on.  
  
The attempt at conversation was interrupted by a squeal from the dry tub, where Stephen had stashed George for temporary safekeeping. The three-month-old hadn't figured out crawling yet, but he was starting to investigate the possibilities of rolling—and, as Stephen found when he leaned over the side, of putting things in his mouth.  
  
"How did you get that, baby boy?" he cooed, tugging the soap out of George's hand. The baby let out a frustrated whimper; Stephen quickly replaced his treasure with a giraffe-shaped loofah, and relaxed when George set to contentedly chewing on one of the hooves. "That's better. Try not to swallow too much dried shower gel, okay? Daddy will be done in just a few minutes."  
  
He tapped George's nose, and was still smiling over the warm bubbly baby giggles when he reclaimed his spot in front of the mirror, where he found the face in the glass watching him with guarded curiosity.  
  
"As I was saying," he continued, turning on the faucet and splashing warm water on his face, "I don't think even _you_ know what you want. Because you know what? I think you want people to like you."  
  
The man in the reflection rolled his eyes. "As if there's any chance of that."  
  
"He hasn't left. Everything you've thrown at Jon, and he hasn't left. He could accept you. You're just afraid to try. Which means you would be upset if he didn't."  
  
"Don't be stupid. I'm not trying because my give-a-damn is in the shop."  
  
"I used to sound like that," insisted Stephen, slathering shaving cream over his cheeks and chin. "I used to say, look, I'm a hard-working, right-thinking American conservative with old-fashioned morals, and he's a fey intellectual permissive secular mainstream media liberal, so what does it _matter_ —"  
  
He slapped the counter for emphasis; flecks of shaving cream flew all over the bathroom.  
  
"...what he thinks of me," finished Stephen shakily, wiping the mirror clean with his sleeve. "But it does matter. I want to make him happy. And I think you do too."  
  


  
Tyrone snorted. "As if you wouldn't kick him to the curb this afternoon if Papa Bear told you to."  
  
Stephen gritted his teeth so hard it sent bolts of pain arcing through the sides of his skull. "I might not!" he insisted. "You never know! I could turn out to be a maverick! I'm a McCain supporter, remember?"  
  
"You and every other conservative pundit in the world," said Tyrone bitterly. "Get back to me when you've done something that would make your father call you a disgrace if he knew."  
  
Stephen switched on his sexy black six-bladed power razor, the one he had special-ordered eight months previously and would be throwing out just as soon as somebody came out with a seven-bladed version. For a moment he let himself get swept up in its hypnotic whirr, trying to ignore the weighty lump of disgust that had settled in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Tyrone's disgust, not his own. It couldn't be his, because it was _directed_ at him, and there was no way he felt that way about himself....  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A splash of cold snapped Stephen back into the world, where Tyrone was rinsing off his face.  
  
"Did you shave?" he blurted.  
  
"Someone had to, didn't they?" said Tyrone, going for the aftershave. "It's not like Stevie and the girls know how. And I'm not letting you hold a razor near the body when you start looking at it like that. Remember what happened with the hammer."  
  
The memory took a moment to surface, shrouded as it was in a layer of cottony numbness. Stephen's palm throbbed distantly as the images solidified.  
  
"That was different," he muttered, trying to shake the feeling away. "Wasn't trying to hurt myself. I just wanted to feel _something_. Normally it would have been fine, but you're not supposed to just feel _nothing_ when you get divorced...and it didn't work, anyway, it just...hey! You didn't finish!"  
  
Tyrone yanked his hand away before he could go for the razor again. "Sure I did."  
  
"You're not growing a mustache!" yelped Stephen, glaring at the reflected line of stubble along his upper lip.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"It's not newsy! Unless you're Geraldo. Which we're not!"  
  
"Well, it's my body too!" snapped Tyrone. "Maybe you get to shrug off the pain when you hurt yourself, but I always feel it for weeks, and Sweetness can't even come out without her hands getting all twisted up. Why can't you be the one to suffer a little for a change?"  
  
Now Stephen's hands just felt like the proverbial shellfish. He wiped the sweat off on his boxers (they were made out of an Oshawa Generals jersey; they could handle it) and tried to meet his own eyes.  
  
"I won't do it again," he stammered. "If something else happens that makes me stop feeling, I'll...I'll go play with George. Or talk to Jon or Charlene, or call Dr. Moreau, or get Bobby to distract me if I'm at the office. I have options, okay? I won't hurt my...our body. So can I please have my face today? I can't do the show in stubble. Even Geraldo couldn't make this look good."  
  
Silence. Silence so flat and blank that it was a moment before Stephen realized he had his hands back.  
  
The blades flowed silky-smooth along his skin, leaving him with the clean, professional reflection that had served him so well. He spent a couple of minutes inspecting it from every angle, just in case, then scooped up George and exchanged enthusiastic greetings in baby-talk.  
  
On the way out, the mirror caught his eye once more, and he instinctively stopped to pose. Adorable as they both were, they looked even better together: George cute as a button, and Stephen himself downright beatific.  
  
Cradling the baby, Stephen caught his own eyes and whispered, "You're gay."  
  
The guy in the mirror nodded.  
  
"Argl?" asked George.  
  
Stephen shook off the early prickles of rising anger, the better to kiss his son's forehead. "I'll explain when you're older."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 17, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
Allison wasn't entirely sure whether her boss understood her job.  
  
Stephen seemed to assume that a perfect script would materialize out of thin air. He normally saw it for the first time when the teleprompters lit up for rehearsal, and if they were lucky he breezed through it on autopilot. Even if he forced the control room to assimilate a round of changes before broadcast, he might still revise as much as half of it on-air (Jimmy was going prematurely grey trying to keep up), and end the night by dragging a writer or several through a round of shouting for not having come up with the final version in the first place.  
  
So Allison was torn between pleasant surprise and gnawing suspicion when her boss showed up at the pre-rehearsal script meeting. On time, no less. It couldn't be for the party food: the celebratory cake was already down to _py 2nd ersary_ , but he had yet to grab a slice. And she would have bet cash that he didn't realize there were WGA negotiations going on in the first place, let alone have any interest in how badly they were going.  
  
The fact that Stephen was playing with one of the pages (shearing off one of the edges to leave a square, then folding it into progressively smaller triangles) came as something of a relief. If he had started reading the text and making suggestions, Allison probably would have had a heart attack.  
  
"Does food have to be on the ThreatDown?" he asked suddenly.  
  
The existing conversation, already fragile in spite of Allison's attempts to shepherd it into productivity, winked out entirely.  
  
"It's part of the point of the segment, Stephen," she replied, crossing her fingers under the table that her heart would take the shock. "The idea is that we're doing the top five most common threats since the show began. For the anniversary. And food is the fourth most common threat, by the numbers."  
  
"In that case, there has to be a more threatening food than pot pies," Stephen announced. "I mean, yes, they're an unholy marriage of dinner and dessert, and open the door to even more ungodly gastronomical hybrids that threaten to destroy the sanctity of mealtimes, but—well—is that really dangerous?"  
  
The entire table gaped.  
  
"Stop that!" barked Stephen, now creasing the paper back and forth in apparently random ways. "And close your mouths! I don't pay you to _think_ about my questions, just answer them!"  
  
There was the man they knew and loved, or at least tolerated. "Um," said Allison, "I would say no. Pot pies are not inherently dangerous."  
  
"Hah!"  
  
"But these ones had salmonella."  
  
"Oh. Well, why didn't you say so?"  
  
Very, _very_ carefully, because correcting Stephen was only slightly less dangerous than walking through a minefield, Allison said, "That was in the script. If you would just unfold that...that, uh...what is that?"  
  
The host followed her gaze, then jumped like a startled puppy. As if the slightly lopsided powder-blue crane had been snuck into his hands when he wasn't looking.  
  


  
He recovered quickly, surveying the room with one eyebrow arched in the kind of geometric curve that ought to have been produced by a mad scientist's careful calculation of the equation for disdain. "It's _origami_ ," he said loftily. "Ancient Japanese art of paper folding. Very classy. And very, very difficult."  
  
"So does that mean it's off the list?" asked one of the junior writers.  
  
"What list?"  
  
Allison looked sharply at the man and gave a quick shake of her head.  
  
"Nothing," said the other writer quickly. "Never mind."  
  
"I will _not_ never mind," snapped Stephen. "What list?"  
  
The writer shot a helpless glance at Allison; she only shrugged. _Sorry, but you brought this on yourself._  
  
"The list," said the poor guy shakily, "of things we're not allowed to mention because you're afraid they're trying to make you gay."  
  
The anger drained from Stephen's face, leaving him paler than the employee he was staring down.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"W-what?"  
  
"Yes," repeated Stephen, in a voice that might have been too faint to hear if the rest of the room hadn't unconsciously resolved not to so much as breathe more loudly than necessary. "Take it off the list. Take _everything_ off the list. Scrap the list! I'm not going to keep being afraid of—of—"  
  
He had broken out in a cold sweat, gripping the edge of the table for dear life.  
  
Allison was on the verge of reaching out to him when Stephen pushed himself to his feet, so sharply that his chair went rolling backwards to thunk softly against the wall. "Don't you people have writing to do?" he demanded. "What do you think I'm overpaying you for? Get back to work!"  
  
With one more change of hue, he swept out of the room looking faintly green.  
  
Another writer broke the silence. "We're all going to get fired the second the talks fall through, aren't we?"  
  
"The talks might still work out," said Allison, so mechanically that even she didn't buy it anymore. "Besides," she added, and to her surprise this part came out with genuine hope, "Stephen has a way of confounding expectations."


	30. If You Liked It, Then You Shoulda...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Anderson Cooper posters](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/118596/october-16-2007/planet-in-peril); [High School Musical](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/188935/october-22-2008/movies-that-are-destroying-america---quantum-of-solace); [inviting Jon on vacations](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-november-17-2005/daily-colbert---thanksgiving); [saying dramatic things without meaning them](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182399/november-13-2006/mccain-s-depression).

**October 17, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
While Stephen, with Sweetness wrapped protectively around him, caught a quick nap, Stevie lay on his couch, with the latest multi-Stephen portrait (four copies of the same figure, the ones in back glaring, the one in the foreground smiling as he touched his rounded stomach) propped next to his feet.  
  
Stephen would be up soon. There was no way he would let Stevie do the show. All Stevie had to do was last that long without bothering Jon. He was pretty sure he could, and Jon would probably be proud if he managed it. Although Jon wouldn't be mad if he didn't, either; so Stephen's iPhone was pressed against his heart, just in case.  
  
He squeaked a little when someone knocked on the door—had he forgotten to lock it?—but then it opened and it was only Bobby. "Stephen! Rehearsal starts in twenty, they need you in makeup. What are you doing in here?"  
  
"I'm sorry!" exclaimed Stevie. "I'm having a dissociative spell."  
  
Bobby's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "Oh!" he exclaimed at last, eyes wide behind his thick glasses. "This is one of those regression things you were telling me about, isn't it?"  
  
"Maybe?"  
  
To his relief, Bobby didn't ask questions he didn't want to answer. "Does that mean you're hurt?" he said instead. "Do you need me to call someone?"  
  
"I'll be okay," insisted Stevie, though he didn't let go of the iPhone. "Do I have to do anything in makeup? Or do I just sit there and let you take care of it?"  
  
"Uh. You sort of just sit there."  
  
"'Kay. Okay. I can do that." Stevie struggled to sit up. "Can you show me which way it is?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Not long after the end of an unnervingly straightforward rehearsal, Allison emerged from the writers' room with a final handful of revisions, and nearly dropped the lot when somebody plucked at her sleeve. Stephen's usual bluff and bluster had deserted him so completely that at first she had looked right through him.  
  
"Can we change one thing?" he said softly. "Please?"  
  
This was too weird. "What is it?"  
  
"Well, you know when we announce the celebration, and there are the lights, and the dancing, and the fog machines, and the balloon drop, and I dance, and the big 'I DID IT!!!' graphic flashes on the screen, and there's the music, and we have a procession with all my awards, and it's all really complicated and interlocked and it took several hours of intense preparation to make sure the timing came out just right?"  
  
"I do," said Allison, wondering if Stephen realized that the show began in fifteen minutes.  
  
"Could we maybe change the 'I DID IT' to say 'WE DID IT'?"  
  
Allison boggled.  
  
"Because, y'know," said Stephen awkwardly, shifting back and forth on his feet, "it wasn't just me, really."  
  
"That's true," breathed Allison.  
  
"It was me and, you know..."  
  
She nodded, a little too eagerly.  
  
"...the heroes. Couldn't do it without them."  
  
"Oh," said Allison. Why had she gotten her hopes up? When was the last time Stephen had given his staff credit for anything?  
  
"You don't look happy," said Stephen—and suddenly he was peering into her eyes with something that, Allison thought wildly, might be genuine concern. "Are you unhappy?"  
  
"No! No, I'm fine."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Now he just looked like a sad puppy. Allison fought the urge to pat him on the head. "Yes, I'm sure. I just thought for a second that you were going to say you couldn't do the show without, well, maybe your staff."  
  
The whole anxious expression snapped into a look of surprise. "I did! I said the heroes!"  
  
"Isn't that the viewers?"  
  
"It's you too! You're even _more_ heroic than they are. You put up with—with—look, you're heroes, okay? Take the compliment, already!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 18, 2007  
Thursday**  
  
"This isn't what I expected you to do."  
  
"Going back on your word, Colbert?"  
  
"No! No, it's fine, the deal is still on. It's just, I figured once you were out, you would go straight for that _Planet in Peril_ poster they sent us in The _USA Today_. The one that's not so much an ad for CNN as it is for Anderson Cooper's polished mirror-ball hair. And luscious pouty lips. And sculpted muscles, clearly outlined by that indecently tight black T-shirt...."  
  
"Sounds like you'll be enjoying that in your own time," smirked Tyrone, rifling through Stephen's closet with far less respect than suits of that cost deserved.  
  
"I will not! The whole reason I'm giving you free reign this morning is so _you_ don't feel the need to do that using-my-hands-while-I'm-not-looking trick with Cooper's delicates under the desk while I'm trying to give him a wholesome, old-fashioned nailing."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't do that."  
  
"Well, good!"  
  
"He's a second-act guest, and there's a wall under the desk," continued Tyrone. "I wouldn't be able to reach under it."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Ignoring him, Tyrone moved on to the bureau, pulling open the doors and perusing them one by one. "There's no wall under the table where you meet the third-act guests..."  
  
"You wouldn't dare!"  
  
"...but there's no wall in front of it, either. Everyone would be able to see."  
  
"Lucky me," grumbled Stephen.  
  
"The best kind of desk is like the ones Jon used to have. We both sit behind it, and there's a big wall in front. You could do a whole show with no pants on and nobody would know."  
  
Stephen pondered this idea. "You know, I bet he's actually done that."  
  
"He hasn't," chimed in Stevie. "He has to stand up when he shakes hands with the guests."  
  
"Psh!" said Stephen. "Reality-hugging factinista."  
  
"I'm sorry!"  
  
"This is a fantasy anyway," added Tyrone. "Facts are beside the point. Oh, come on, why don't we have any casual clothes?"  
  
"We do!" protested Stephen. "See? Right here."  
  
"Those are dress slacks!"  
  
"But they're _light brown_ dress slacks!"  
  
"That's not—aha!" From the furthest reaches of the drawer, Tyrone dragged forth something in dark blue denim. "Jeans!"  
  
"No! Bad idea! Very bad idea!"  
  
"You promised I could do what I want this morning. It won't count if you change afterwards," said Tyrone gleefully, hooking Stephen's thumbs under his elastic waistband and shoving the pajama bottoms down. "Besides, you bought these, so you can't complain."  
  
Stephen gritted his teeth and reminded himself that it was for the greater good, or at least for the sake of not finding himself feeling up the Silver Surfer of News in the green room. Besides, he would get to wear his show suit on air anyway. Until then, he would just have to grin and bear it.  
  
Two minutes later, he was grinning, all right: Tyrone was on his back on the bed, the jeans three-quarters of the way up his legs and stubbornly refusing to be pulled up any farther. "Told you this was a bad idea."  
  
"What are you gloating for? You're the one who got fat!"  
  
"Hey! I'm in great shape for a man of my age who's had a baby!"  
  
Somebody giggled. No: _two_ somebodies.  
  
"What's so funny?" demanded Stephen.  
  
It was too deep inside himself to see, but he found himself picturing a flash of long blonde hair to go with the girlish laugh, before Stevie's familiar voice piped up, "It's just, if you think about it..."  
  
"I won't, but go ahead."  
  
"...you are in the worst shape of any man of your age who's had a baby in the _history of the universe_."  
  
Stephen was all geared up to shout about this when, against his better judgment, he thought about it.  
  
"Who's the girl with you?" he asked instead. When all he got from Stevie was confusion, he poked Tyrone. "What's her name?"  
  
"Who knows?"  
  
"You knew she existed before I did." Stephen summoned up a picture of the internal Colbunker. Its back door opened on a long hall: one he had never set foot in, because its first offshoot was Tyrone's room. "And she lives down your hallway, doesn't she?"  
  
"Look, I don't _mind_ the rugrats, but I am not your alters' keeper," huffed Tyrone. "Besides, she changes it every time she finds a new pop star to be obsessed with. Now shut up and let me concentrate."  
  
With a not insignificant effort, Stephen shut up. When had part of him found the time to be obsessed with girly pop stars, anyway? Although he did have the entire soundtrack of _High School Musical_ on his iPod, and, now that he thought about it, couldn't remember exactly how it had gotten there....  
  
At last Tyrone forced the jeans over his hips, sucked in Stephen's gut, and, with a mighty heave, zipped the fly. "Hah!" he exclaimed triumphantly, sitting up.  
  
There was a painful ripping sound.  
  
It was Stephen's turn to smirk. "Light brown slacks?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He was doing his level best to follow what Stephen was saying, but no jury in the world would have convicted Jon for not paying attention.  
  
"The leaves are amazing this time of year, Jon. You get out on the shore and look across the water and it looks like the trees are on fire. In a good way, I mean. And not the evergreens, obviously. But the rest of them: fire!"  
  
He would have had a rock-solid case. Exhibit A: a photograph of Stephen's hair. Exhibit B: an arrow pointing back to Exhibit A. The defense rests, your honor.  
  
"Okay, so the leaves have probably mostly fallen by now. But that's okay, because that just means it's Halloween season. There's a little farm half a mile down the road that grows the fourth largest pumpkins in the state. And they're for sale! Only you need the whole family to team up and attack one, because otherwise it'll take you days on end to carve."  
  
"Stephen, I really am sorry," interrupted Jon, cutting Stephen off before he could attempt to demonstrate his pumpkin-carving technique on one of their styrofoam takeout containers, "but I have to ask...."  
  
"The outfit? Yeah, I know. I'll get back in something presentable by airtime, don't worry."  
  
The slacks and turtleneck looked perfectly presentable to Jon. A little casual for Stephen, maybe, but Jon was inclined to take that a good sign: it meant he wasn't feeling scared enough to need to hide behind ties and cufflinks. "I was looking at your hair, actually."  
  
Stephen paled. "What's happened to my hair?"  
  
"Wait. You don't know?"  
  
If they had been in Stephen's office, no doubt there would have been half a dozen mirrors within reach from any given spot. In Jon's, he had to duck into the attached shower to get a good look.  
  
A second later, every window rattled as he slammed the door behind him.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
It took ten minutes of coaxing on Jon's part, most of which Stephen was certain consisted of bald-faced lies ("no, Stephen, it doesn't look at all like the 1980s kidnapped your head"), to draw him back out into the office. At last he allowed Jon to lead him onto the couch, head in Jon's lap, where he could let Jon gently massage his scalp through the family of Tribbles that had evidently taken up residence on top of it.  
  
"Never should've let Tyrone touch my hair," moaned Stephen. "It's like he doesn't understand that the eighties _ended_. My stylist is going to hate me forever."  
  


  
"She won't hate you," soothed Jon. "Although she probably deserves a bonus for wrangling your hair so well for so long. For that matter, this is a good week to be giving everybody bonuses. Just in case."  
  
Stephen mustered up the strength for a limp but dismissive wave of the hand. "I don't believe in strikes," he declared. "Besides, if they wanted bonuses, I offered them all trips to the cabin. Everybody said no. Can't imagine why, but oh well. More fresh pine scent for us, right?"  
  
"'Us'?" echoed Jon nervously. "When am I going?"  
  
Rolling over, Stephen frowned up at him. "Next week, Jon. While we're on break. With the pumpkins. Haven't you been listening?"  
  
Jon got one of those anxious looks he did so well. "Stephen...honey...we're not spending next week together. Tracey and I are taking the kids to see her parents."  
  
Stephen fixed the man with his best glare, the one that could make hair curl and milk sour, although even that might not be enough to undermine the fact that he was flat on his back with a coif like a Monchichi. "But we still have the weekend, right? You could make it for a day or two, right?"  
  
"Not this coming weekend, no. I'm flying out-of-state to do a couple of standup gigs."  
  
"Since _when?_ "  
  
"Since—Stephen, this was already on the schedule back when we first started working things out. You really don't remember?"  
  
Stephen's lashes fluttered rapidly. "What? Don't be silly. Of course I wouldn't forget something like...Jon? Is this the last time we're going to see each other for a week?"  
  
"Hadn't thought of it that way," admitted Jon. "But, yeah, I guess it is."  
  
"You could sound a _little_ more upset about it!"  
  
"It's just a few days. Thursday will be here before you know it...and in the meantime, of course you can call me, or text me, or...and, uh, I'll miss you."  
  
"But not enough to be there!" cried Stephen. "What if I need you, huh? What if Stevie gets lost in the woods? What if Tyrone decides to run off again, and Charlene doesn't feel like bringing him back? What if I get lonely and heartsick and Sweetness starts pointing out that in comparison that dark cold lake looks awfully inviting—"  
  
"Hey!" barked Jon, cutting him off with a hand over his mouth.  
  
Stephen froze. His vision swam; he had to fight to track the words as Jon continued: "Don't joke about that! If you really think you're in danger I will drive you to the hospital myself and make sure they keep you in custody until it passes, but don't you dare joke about it, not to get my attention, not for anything. Understand?"  
  
Head buzzing, Stephen's hand shot out of its own volition and shoved Jon's wrist away. He needed air. He couldn't be muffled, might choke, he had to breathe, had to be able to to talk if he wanted to, had to shout....  
  
His mouth worked soundlessly as he bit back the shouting, focusing on breathing, until Sweetness was satisfied that it was safe to loosen her grip on Jon's arm. Still not thrilled, though. Still agitated. So hard to _think_ over all the noise—  
  
"You'd lock me up?"  
  
"You'd try to kill yourself?" countered Jon.  
  
Had he said that? He hadn't been thinking, just talking, just going off into a rant without really paying attention to what he was saying. But of course he would never—surely Jon understood—?  
  
"You're really scared, aren't you?" realized Stephen, as the static in his head quieted down.  
  
Jon slumped, with relief or defeat or both. "How can I not be?" he said weakly. "God, Stephen, it's been on the back of my mind ever since we found out Stevie got that gun away from you. Am I supposed to believe he didn't have a reason for that?"  
  
_Because he's a seven-year-old 'fraidy-cat,_ Stephen thought but didn't say. If someone as unfailingly Zen as _Jon_ was scared, it was going to take more than a few words, however loudly delivered, to get him back on keel. This situation called for nothing less than a big dramatic gesture.  
  
Well, Stephen was a champion at big dramatic gestures.  
  
_Maybe that's why we're scared.  
  
Shake it off, Col-bert,_ ordered Stephen, hauling himself out of Jon's lap. His back was turned for maybe a few beats too long, so when he turned he clasped Jon's hand extra-firmly between his own to make up for it.  
  
"There are...things...that Sweetness doesn't understand," he allowed. "She's a very singleminded lady, Jon. So, yeah, she'll say stuff like that, but it doesn't mean...it's only because she doesn't see the big picture, okay? And I do. My country needs me. The Colbert Nation needs me. _George_ needs me. I can't just disappear on them."  
  
Jon still looked anxious, eyebrows furrowed and full lips pursed in a way that made Stephen very much want to kiss them, but he hadn't actually done that by himself in what felt like forever, and the moment was already sullied enough by the bird's-nest on his head without throwing an awful kiss into the mix. And then Jon's gaze shifted to their hands, as if only just noticing that Stephen was pressing something against his palm. "Stephen—is that—?"  
  
"I want you to hold on to it," said Stephen. "For the week, I mean. And you need to take extra-good care of it, because I'll be coming back for it. Understand?"  
  


  
The look of awe that he had been shooting for began at last to creep across Jon's face. "You really don't have to...."  
  
"Do so," said Stephen, arching his eyebrows to indicate that he was prepared to repeat the phrase until he turned blue if necessary.  
  
Jon drew his fingers dutifully closed, then brought ther hands up until he could brush a kiss across Stephen's conspicuously bare knuckles. As if Stephen weren't the one trying to comfort _him_. "Thank you."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 20, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
Everything about Stephen's cabin was carefully calibrated to look cozy and homelike, from the charming knicknacks with the MADE IN CHINA imprint sandpapered off to the wooden furniture with artificially weathered paint. One such bureau had been deputized to serve as George's crib; when Charlene poked her head into Stephen's room that evening, she found her cousin humming a lullaby over the open drawer, wrapping the baby warmly in a blanket that looked almost exactly like the ones Gammy had knit for each of her grandchildren before the arthritis took over while she was halfway through Charlene's.  
  
"Hey," she whispered as the final note died down. "Did you bring toothpaste? I think the bathroom's out."  
  
"What? Oh, sure." Without turning on the lights, Stephen dug quietly through two of his suitcases (why he had packed four for a trip of as many days, Charlene was afraid to ask) before joining her in the doorway and proffering his cupped hands. "Here. And this is for you too."  
  
Taking the tube with one hand, Charlene turned over the powder-blue origami crane with the other. "It's pretty," she said, taking in the precise creases, the sharp and delicate points. "Why me?"  
  
"I thought...because it's Tyrone who's been making them...you mean he didn't learn them with you?"  
  
"Not that I remember."  
  
"Oh." Stephen frowned. "Then I don't know who should have it. So I guess you can keep it."  
  
The little bird perched neatly on the bathroom counter while Charlene brushed her teeth, then came with her to the room where she had tossed her own bag. It was, she reflected as she looked for a place to put it, probably the most authentically personal thing in sight. Which was fine with her, really. In spite of Stephen's attempts to lavish her with new things, even her bedroom back at the house could have passed for a generic guest room.  
  
She ended up settling the crane on a charming-in-spite-of-itself low table, between an arrangement of pinecones and dried flowers with the remnants of a price tag still stuck to their stems and a photo of a scenic waterfall that appeared to have come with the frame. It still looked painfully out-of-place, but it would have to do.

* * *


	31. Crane Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title was originally inspired by [the Julia Ecklar song](http://www.lyricsmuse.com/tracks/1302513-Crane_Dance_by_Julia_Ecklar), although [**stellar_dust**](http://stellar-dust.dreamwidth.org/) points out that it works perfectly well as a straight-up reference to the [lovely but awkward](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-o4xsvE1p-g) [circling and flapping](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAqcpMEoLa0) that real cranes do when they want to get to know each other better.
> 
> Clips referenced: [a weakness for sappy movies](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/185692/september-25-2008/-nights-in-rodanthe--premiere); [saying "please be better" earnestly enough](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFQFB5YpDZE). Shasta went to [a farm upstate](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/250615/september-30-2009/threatdown---environmentalists--kang-lee---mountain-pine-beetles). Stephen's earliest memory is in _I Am America_.

**October 21, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
Jon's in-laws still hadn't sprung for wireless, which, even though he usually kept his work and home lives separate, was still a step too removed from civilization for him to deal with. He ordered CNN and the NYT to text him the most important alerts, then set his phone to vibrate.  
  
When he finally checked it that evening, in what Tracey called "prime insomnia-fueling time," he had eighteen messages to sort through. But not one was about a breaking political scandal or a surprise tsunami.  
  
_2:12 PM  
lake is lovely. silver silver everywhere. kind of like your head.  
  
2:13 PM  
I Miss You.  
  
4:48 PM  
caught a fish! it was thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis big. and you missed it. shame on you.  
  
4:53 PM  
I Miss You Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis Much.  
  
5:27 PM  
oh no! cabin is on fire. come quick. bring hose.  
  
5:30 PM  
Nothing Actually On Fire Except Stephen's Pants. Also, I Miss You._  
  
And so on, all the way through  
  
_10:59 PM  
well, time for bed. wish you were here.  
  
11:01 PM  
If You Know What I Mean._  
  
Giggling under his breath so as not to wake the house, Jon tapped out a quick reply.  
  
_11:42 PM  
Good morning sunshine (or if this wakes you up, sweet dreams). Missing you too._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 22, 3007  
Monday**  
  
After a brisk morning hike, Stephen crawled into bed with every intention of sleeping until dusk. He had a vague feeling that Sweetness had already dropped off, justly worn out by her ceaseless vigil of keeping watch for bears. Stevie too, though he left behind a squirming anxiety about leaving things dirty.  
  
_Nothing wrong with that,_ Stephen told himself, curling his toes into the quilt and closing his eyes against the pillowcase. _It's manly sweat. Besides, if it really gets to be a problem, I'll have the whole place steam-cleaned. I'm too tired for a—  
  
(—had to shout over the noise of the water still pouring down around him but that was okay, she deserved it, and anyway it's not like she wasn't yelling right back through damp tangled hair, something about how he was going to wake the girls and it was his own fault for never telling her what he wanted, as if it wasn't obvious, as if any man would want to be randomly accosted while he was naked and sudsy, even by his own—)_  
  
Stephen groaned. _You got something to say to me, just come out with it, already. I'm too tired for cryptic memories._  
  
A few beats later, a familiar presence settled in beside him: like Tyrone without the coiling disdain, or the penchant for mustaches. _"Formidable Opponent," he said, by way of greeting.  
  
Hi,_ thought Stephen muzzily. _Caesar Honeybee?  
  
"Hi."  
  
Are you going to tell me you want out more?_ asked Stephen, with undisguised hope. _Because I wouldn't complain so much if it was you. We'd probably get in a lot less trouble if you were out more often.  
  
"Right," muttered Tyrone's twin. "Like straight people are so much better and safer and less generally fucked up."_  
  


  
_Aren't they?  
  
"I was there for your marriage," pointed out Caesar. "Is it really over? Will you not drag me out again?"  
  
There wasn't any dragging when you came out with Nancy,_ Stephen countered. _Except for the wearing-her-clothes part.  
  
"That part wasn't me. And it's different when it's Nancy. I'll come out on my own for Nancy. When I don't want to be out, can you let me go?"_  
  
Stephen shuddered. Two weeks of spiritual drought, of missed services and unconfessed sins, was bad enough; and now this? _I can't do that! What if I need you?  
  
"What if you don't?"  
  
You're not going anywhere, and that's final!_ snapped Stephen. _And you're a formidable opponent,_ he added, shutting down the debate before Caesar could say anything more.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"There was this guy."  
  
Charlene nearly dropped the half-scrubbed pan. She hadn't even realized her cousin had woken up. "Stephen? Don't scare me like that!"  
  
"Not Stephen," said the man on the staircase. He was around a corner from the kitchenette, easy to hear but not to see. "Sorry. I just wanted to say how I picked up origami. It was because of the guy."  
  
"A friend of yours?"  
  
A soft sound that might have been a laugh. "Co-star. He mostly did videos for the rice-queen crowd, but we had a couple of shoots together."  
  
It took a moment for Charlene to parse the unfamiliar slang. "You mean he was Japanese. And you learned it from him?"  
  
"Oh, sure. While we sipped tea in kimonos under the cherry blossoms," drawled her cousin. "He was adopted. Raised by white parents in a mostly-white neighborhood, knew fuckall about the culture. So one night we hit up this used bookstore, found a two-dollar book on paper-folding, and tried to work it out. He ended up with this little stacking pagoda, plus a bunch of frogs. I got good at cranes."  
  
"It sounds like he was a friend," said Charlene softly. "Did you know his real name? Could you look him up sometime?"  
  
"He died."  
  
A chill ran down Charlene's arms.  
  
"Lots of us died," continued Tyrone. "If there was any justice in the world, I would have been one of them. Why am I still here?"  
  
Charlene put down the pan with a muted clatter and made for the stairs, flicking stray bubbles from her hands. Her cousin was sitting on the fifth step, under a store-bought cross-stitch of fireworks framing the text of _God Bless America_. Glasses off and hair tousled from sleep, he looked far more subdued than he had with the Carells, world-weariness and childlike hurt bleeding through in equal measure.  
  
"Can I get you anything?" she offered. "Cocoa? ...Wine?"  
  
"I don't want _cocoa!_ " hissed Tyrone, voice breaking. "I want you to _stay_ with me! Is that so hard?"  
  
He dropped his head to his chest, hugging his knees for support. Heart pounding, Charlene took a deep breath and settled carefully down beside him, an inch away from touching, hip to hip.  
  
"Talk about an odd couple," said Tyrone presently. His gaze was still downcast, but the shattered-glass fragility had receded. "You're pathologically afraid of getting close to anyone, and Stephen's pathologically afraid of being alone."  
  
Between the tension on her nerves and the exhaustion of the busy day, Charlene actually giggled. " _I'm_ afraid of getting close? You're the one who tries to push Jon away from Stephen every chance you get!"  
  
"Oh, like you can talk! As if the only reason you're letting yourself fall for Tracey isn't because you know she'll always put Jon first."  
  
"You must be feeling better if you can snark at me."  
  
"You must be feeling better if you're not trying to feed me."  
  
They looked up in awkward tandem, shared the ghost of a smile.  
  


  
"Tell you what," said Charlene, lightheaded at what she was about to say. "When we get back, we can go out shopping, and you can buy things for my room."  
  
Hope flashed on Tyrone's face, replaced a moment later by wariness. "What kind of things?"  
  
"I don't know! Useful things. Decorative things. Silly things. All the myriad trifles of quotidian existence. But they have to be _real_ things, not like...." She waved vaguely to indicate the cross-stitch, the staircase, the whole cabin. "Not like _that_. Anything, so long as it's real."  
  
Tyrone broke into a rueful smile. "Aw, Charlie. What do any of us know from real?"  
  
"You made the crane," said Charlene stubbornly. "We can start there."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 26, 2007  
Friday**  
  
One of these weeks Jon was going to remember to ask Stephen if he would be up for watching _Sybil_. Tonight, though, he had settled on a harmless romantic comedy. Stephen scoffed at the premise, then started to tear up about halfway through; when he saw that Jon had noticed, he stuck out his tongue and commandeered what was left of Jon's popcorn.  
  
"It was sweet, I guess," he finally admitted, ten minutes after the credits had rolled and Tracey and Charlene had departed for somewhere softer.  
  
"From you, that's practically four stars," teased Jon. "And, uh, speaking of sweet...."  
  
Stephen looked decidedly affronted as Jon reached into his back pocket. "You've been keeping it _there?_ "  
  
"I was careful, I promise." Jon blew away a few specks of dust that lingered on the gold band, then proffered it to the man on the couch beside him. "I wanted to keep it close, that's all."  
  
Stephen plucked the ring from his palm, then caught ahold of his wrist. "Try it on?"  
  
Jon did a double-take. "What?"  
  
Stephen sat up straighter, his grip on Jon's arm tightening. "I want to see how it looks," he said crossly, as if he couldn't imagine why Jon was being so fussy about this. "Let me put it on."  
  
"All right. Just to see."  
  
He tried to relax, letting Stephen turn his hand over and slide the wedding ring onto his fourth finger with the deliberate intensity of a jeweller setting a stone. It wasn't easy. There had always been an emptiness to these symbols in Tracey's mind, and Jon's own attachment had been too weak to be worth clinging to; but this gesture was stirring associations he hadn't realized were still there, and the whole thing clearly had a weightiness for Stephen far beyond anything Jon had ever dealt with.  
  
"Everyone okay in there?" he prompted, when Stephen's stare had bored into his hand for a few beats too long.  
  
"It's just us, Jon," snapped Stephen. "Just you and me. As far as I _know_ , at least. As far as my poor broken traumatized mind is capable of _processing_ such things, I have arranged to have some time with you that will not be interrupted by my clinical insanity. Rub it in, why don't you."  
  
"Stephen, I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean it like that."  
  
The other man fell silent again, inching closer in fits and starts. On a hunch, Jon leaned forward, letting his head tilt invitingly.  
  
With a jerking lunge Stephen closed the last of the distance between them, crushing his mouth against Jon's...  
  
...in something that was technically a kiss, but awkward, sloppy, and with far too much tongue.  
  
He jumped back as if he had been scalded when Jon burst into a fit of giggling. "What? What is it?"  
  
"Nothing—it's—"  
  
"Stop trying to distract me by being adorable! What's so funny?"  
  
"'S okay," panted Jon, catching his breath and wiping some of the excess saliva from his cheeks. "I think you had one of the—" He caught himself just in time to avoid saying _other alters._ "—the young alters bleeding through there, a bit."  
  
"Meaning what?"  
  
"Meaning—well—you kissed like an overenthusiastic sophomore."  
  
Stephen's face fell.  
  
"...Oh." Jon could have kicked himself. "Oh, Stephen. _Was_ that you?"  
  
"What?" Stephen forced a belated smile. "No! That was—that must've been—I've kissed _hundreds_ of—don't be ridiculous!"  
  
"Easy, babe. You know it's okay, right? It's—"  
  
Grabbing one of the throw pillows, Stephen biffed Jon across the forehead. It didn't hurt, but there was a touch more force to the gesture than a play thwap required. "Don't do that!"  
  
"What now?" groaned Jon.  
  
Stephen clenched his shaking hands. "Don't call me 'babe'," he snapped. "I don't like it."  
  
"Is that all? I didn't realize...it's just what I call Tracey...."  
  
"Well, I'm not Tracey!"  
  
"Of course you're not," stammered Jon. "I'm sorry. I'll come up with something else. Stephen, please, calm down."  
  
"And don't tell me to calm down!" cried Stephen. "Don't brush me off, and don't compare me to your wife, and don't _mock_ my _kissing_ , just because I haven't had all your wild-promiscuous-liberal experience—"  
  
" _I'm_ promiscuous?" blurted Jon.  
  
He was regretting the words before they were all the way off his tongue, but even that came too late: Stephen looked like he had been punched in half a dozen guts at once.  
  
"Stephen, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"  
  
"You're a _horrible_ person," hissed Stephen, throwing himself from the couch and half-stalking, half-running for the hall.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 27, 2007  
Saturday**  
  
Maggie had conked out in her carseat by the time they reached the café, and Nate was in the middle of describing an enthusiastic sequel to the play he had just watched, including a few plot points that seemed to have been lifted from _Star Wars_. Jon listened with interest while Tracey went in to order, and tried not to look too relieved when she returned and handed their son an almost comically oversized cinnamon roll.  
  
"Try not to get any on the seat, honey," she urged, spreading a sheaf of napkins across Nate's lap before handing Jon a jam tart. "You too."  
  
"Yes'm."  
  
When they were back on the road, and Jon had swallowed, Tracey added, "Rough night last night?"  
  
"Was I not enthusiastic enough during the singalong?"  
  
"Well, that, and Stephen slept in the basement."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"If you want to save it for Dr. Rubin, that's fine," added Tracey. "Just thought I'd ask."  
  
"No, it's okay." Jon checked his mirrors: nobody tailgating; blue Prius about to pass on the left; Maggie's curls splayed across the car seat; Nate engrossed in his roll; grey Honda keeping pace on the right. "I said something stupid; Stephen got mad; he yelled at me until I got all turned around and said something _really_ stupid, then took off."  
  
"He does that," said Tracey. "You knew he would do that from the get-go. It's part of the Colbert Platinum Package."  
  
Jon cracked a brief smile. "I know. And, listen, I can take that part. Especially when he's come so far...in all the time I've known him, even in just this past year...and it's worth it for the results, for when he learns things, when he has the guts to open up about something that's been crushing him for years, when he carves these moments of happiness out of everything he's been through. But this was different."  
  
His wife took an expectant bite of her eclair.  
  
"I really did screw up on this one, babe. Again. What if I never get better at this? What if, in the long run, he has it worse because I don't know what I'm doing?"  
  
They came to a stop at a light, where Tracey took the opportunity to thumb a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. "You can't fix it all, honey. You've already figured out that you can't walk into a room and make everything fall into place by saying 'please be better' earnestly enough. Well, you can't heal everything in Stephen's life by being perfect enough, either."  
  
"But—"  
  
"But he adores you," interrupted Tracey. "Even when he doesn't admit it. You make his world better by being part of it, screw-ups and all. Now when we get home you're going to put Curly back there to bed, go find the man, and stop trying so hard to give up on yourself before he does."  
  
Jon smiled sheepishly. "Why am I paying someone else for therapy, again?"  
  
"Because I already have a day job," laughed Tracey, licking off her thumb. "Light's green, honey."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Charlene stood ready and willing to take the grocery bags, so when George was passed into her arms instead, she was so surprised she nearly let go. The baby, oblivious, gurgled happily around his pacifier and tried to grab one of her dangling earrings.  
  
"He's mad at me," explained Stephen, piling the food on the counter in a mass of crinkling plastic. "Because I made him get shots. Expensive shots, too," he added, throwing George a pointed look which went totally ignored, "so he ought to appreciate them! It's times like this I wish I'd taken that Prescott sponsorship. You know they were offering to send me a lifetime supply of Vaxadrin?"  
  
Charlene shifted her nephew to one arm and retrieved the silver hoop from his eager hand with the other. "Does Vaxadrin protect against diptheria, tetanus, and pertussis?"  
  
"Who knows? It might. Clinical tests were inconclusive."  
  
He hummed a few disjointed bars of the _New Adventures of Tek Jansen_ theme song as he dug a firm honeydew from one of the bags. Charlene smiled down at the baby. "Your daddy seems to have cheered up."  
  
Stephen whipped around almost fast enough to knock his glasses askew. "I'm fine! Who said I wasn't?"  
  
"No one," stammered Charlene. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean...you just seemed really stressed this morning. After confession, too, and that usually calms you down."  
  
"Well, I'm calm," huffed Stephen, sliding the melon over to sit next to a stack of apples and retrieving a box of something that appeared to be about 90% high fructose corn syrup and 10% artificial coloring.  
  
Charlene couldn't help but wince. "Is that for Jon's kids? And even if it isn't, can it go home with them?"  
  
"I didn't buy this," said Stephen automatically. When Charlene raised an eyebrow, he added, "I think it was Stevie. Jon's kids can have them." He stuffed the fruit snacks into a cupboard (next to the plates, but Charlene could fix that later) and scanned the room. "Where are Jon's kids, anyway? They can't be in the house. There's not enough chaos."  
  
"Tracey and Jon took them to see the Story Pirates." Lifting George into the air, she added, "Not that this place is ever really chaos-free, is it? Except when your daddy's taken you away somewhere. Or when you're both asleep, and how long does that ever last? Which reminds me: Stephen, did you get those gates for the stairs? He's going to be trying to roll down them soon if we're not careful."  
  
"I'm _getting_ there," groused Stephen. "They're in the car. Let me finish unpacking your fancy French dressing first. What kind of word is 'vinaigrette', anyway? What's wrong with good old-fashioned ranch? It's like having all the patriotic flair of brush-clearing right there in your mouth."  
  
"Urgl?" asked George.  
  
"Don't listen to him," Charlene warned the baby. "Your father means well, but he knows nothing about salads."  
  
This failed to earn a yelp of protest, so she rested George back on her hip and turned to check on Stephen. He was staring at the latest item of food without really seeing it, unless there was something more profound than she realized about drinkable yogurt.  
  
"I'm sorry about the song," he blurted. "I'm sorry about everything."  
  
Charlene cocked her head. "Stephen...did you get left alone a lot, when you were little?"  
  
Stephen put the case of yogurt absently aside. "First thing I remember is my parents disappearing on me."  
  
"Oh...."  
  
"Even the stupid cat ditched me when the babysitter made fishsticks." Stephen drummed his bare fingers against the countertop. "Everyone leaves. Shasta abandoned me after fourteen years, never even said goodbye. Steve took Nancy and ran off to Hollywood, just because he got offered a dream job with obscene amounts of money. The President never returns my calls. Papa Bear _hit_ me. Lorraine—"  
  
He gripped the edge of the counter, too late to hide his shaking hands.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," he insisted. "I just wanted to say how I know it upset you, and I'm sorry, and thank you for letting me buy you things because I know that's hard for you, and I don't want to talk about it anymore. Okay? Movin' on."


	32. For The Love Of Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The similarity of this belief to that of most people, whether or not they have a religious sense...of heaven, makes me uneasy about calling [the patient's] belief a delusion._  
>  — _Splitting_ (Stoller, 1973), the author trying to determine which of his patient's unverifiable beliefs can be attributed to his patient's mental illness, and which can't.
> 
> Clips referenced: [Toby](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/24688/november-01-2005/emergency-evacuation-plan).

**October 27, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
The table in the dining room was spread with a medley of diagrams and fabric swatches: preliminary steps in what Stephen had declared was sure to be the most popular line of animated-television tie-in children's clothing ever, in spite of the fact that most of _The New Adventures of Tek Jansen_ had been rated as Not Suitable For Their Age Group. The only space left for food was taken by a plastic container of cubed honeydew, piled so high that it threatened to tip and splatter all over a few strips of ocean-blue fabric.  
  
Stephen himself was ignoring the lot of this, in favor of bending over George's high chair and moving the floppy cow back and forth across the baby's field of view.  
  
"Check it out, Jon!" he exclaimed, as Jon watched this tableau from the doorway. He hadn't looked up, and his glasses were perched on one of the order forms anyway; Jon's footfalls were evidently just that familiar to him now. "He follows it, see?"  
  
Sure enough, as he moved the well-chewed toy in a slow arc, George burbled and twisted after it. The cherubic cuteness of it was almost enough to distract Jon from his surprise. "You're not still mad?"  
  
"Mad? What would I be mad about?"  
  
Jon's heart lifted, then immediately sank with guilt for having done so. "You don't remember."  
  
"Why would I remember?" asked Stephen, brimming with false cheer. "It's not like _I_ would give you a horribly awkward pseudo-kiss and then flip my _ess-aitch-eye-tee_ afterwards. Must've been one of the alters." To George he added, "That's called _spelling._ We'll get to that after you work out 'sitting up'."  
  
Jon kicked off his shoes in the hall and shuffled across the floorboards in sock feet, taking a seat at the end of the table. "I really am sorry."  
  
Stephen's face fell as he passed the cow into George's hands, where it was clutched tightly and its ear promptly gummed. "I had this whole speech planned out for the doctor. Telling her what a horrible person you were, complete with some nicely intimidating hand gestures and a few clever puns. I'd pass the puns on to my writing staff, only most of them would just get bleeped on-air anyway."  
  
Was Jon supposed to react with pride or remorse? He settled for neutral interest. "How did she take it?"  
  
"She never heard it. I was all geared up to launch into it when Stevie popped out and started bawling about how you probably hated us now. Don't," he added, before Jon could stammer another apology. "She talked him down. Hugged him and made him explain the whole thing."  
  
"Never thought Moreau would be a hugger," admitted Jon, nudging aside a couple of papers and resting his elbows on the resulting small patches of table.  
  
"Well. She sat next to us and put her arm around us. That counts, right?"  
  
"I don't see why not."  
  
"Anyway, she said it sounded like you didn't mean it, and you were just flustered because I was shouting too much."  
  
Jon nodded, folding his hands. "I didn't. I was. You...well...."  
  
Stephen circled the high chair and cupped his hands gently over George's ears. "The meds were supposed to take _care_ of that!" he hissed, finally turning his plaintive gaze to meet Jon's. "Okay, they've been stopping the panic attacks, but they're also supposed to stop me from going off at things that don't matter! And the doctor won't let me take any more. She says any higher dose would short out my kidneys!"  
  
"That doesn't sound good."  
  
"I don't _need_ kidneys, Jon! I need _you!_ "  
  
"Stephen, you're yelling again!"  
  
Fury flashed briefly on Stephen's face before dying out; he bowed his head, letting his hands slide down to drape limply over George's shoulders. "Sorry."  
  
Jon wanted nothing more than to to apologize, to offer help, to promise anything in his power that would make it okay. He remembered what Tracey had said, not to mention the meaningfully raised eyebrows Dr. Rubin kept giving him, and restricted himself to a silent nod.  
  
"I need everyone to stop making me angry in the first place," grumbled Stephen, slumping back into his chair. "I need a pill that makes everything better, with no side effects. I need to hop in a time machine and go back and fix everything that went wrong, starting with wrecking that stupid bookshelf before it could fall on us. I need...I need...."  
  
In the silence left by his hesitation, an insistent gurgle rumbled from the vicinity of his stomach.  
  
"Sounds like you need lunch," said Jon frankly.  
  
It earned him a weak smile. "Pass the honeydew?" asked Stephen, making a halfhearted grabby-hand gesture at the pile of succulent bite-sized chunks. "It's my favorite, you know."  
  
"I know. You once spent an entire lunch hour trying to convince me that it was the king of melons."  
  
One of Stephen's eyebrows arched like an angry cat. "It _is_ the king of melons," he said sternly, in a tone that dared Jon to try and challenge the royal succession. "Gimme."  
  
Jon's fingertips were inches from the handle of the container when a thought struck him. "Stephen? Honeydew is a good thing in your mind, right? No bad associations?"  
  
"Why? Should there be?"  
  
"No! No, that's the whole point. Listen, close your eyes for a minute, okay?"  
  
Stephen went rigid. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"Give you some honeydew. That's all. I promise."  
  
"...Okay." Letting his eyelids fall closed, Stephen sat up straight and held out his hand expectantly.  
  
Lifting a chunk of melon from the top of the heap, Jon leaned over the table and brushed it across Stephen's mouth.  
  
Stephen twitched in surprise, but not far. When Jon held the honeydew still against his lips, he hesitated a moment, then inched forward and took it delicately into his mouth.  
  
He chewed. Swallowed. Licked his lips.  
  
"W-well?" he demanded, eyes resolutely closed. "Am I getting another?"  
  
Something warm curled up in Jon's chest, heady waves radiating outwards. "As much as you want."  
  
He fed Stephen a second piece of fruit in the same manner, then a third, maybe a dozen in all: Stephen asking for pleasure and Jon giving it to him, without condition, without hesitation, as the autumn sunlight streamed in and made everything glow.  
  


  
At last, when Stephen had begun openly smiling, Jon said, "You know, I'm kind of hungry myself. You want to switch places?"  
  
Stephen's eyes flew open. "Really?"  
  
"I don't see why not."  
  
Jon picked up the container two-handed and passed it across the table; Stephen shoved aside a whole suit's worth of fabric swatches to make a place for it. With exaggerated care he selected a medium-sized piece and placed it on George's high chair, where it proved just the right size to be easily gooshed by tiny hands. Taking a second piece, he turned expectantly to Jon.  
  
Jon closed his eyes. "Ready when you are."  
  
Lips slightly parted, he waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
This was more awkward than he had realized.  
  
When the silence was verging on intolerable, he hazarded, "Still there?"  
  
Stephen let out a muffled, inarticulate noise of surprise.  
  
Jon cracked an eyelid. Stephen's mouth was stuffed to bursting: cheeks bulging, lines of juice dribbling down his chin. He clapped a hand over his mouth and cringed, the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sowwy, D'on!"  
  
"Oh, honey," sighed Jon. "Chew and swallow that first, okay?"  
  
Some noisy chewing and gulping later, Stevie repeated, "Sorry, Jon." Red-faced, he looked on the verge of tears.  
  
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay," insisted Jon. "Stevie, honey, you don't have to do that. There's more than enough honeydew to go around. Even if we finish this one, we can go buy another. You don't have to worry whether you'll get any."  
  
"I—I don't?"  
  
"You don't. You can have as much as you want. Just...one at a time, okay?"  
  
"One at a time," repeated Stevie.  
  
"That's right."  
  
Stevie gave the remaining fruit a cautious once-over, then shook himself and straightened up, the lines reappearing around his mouth as if his face were some kind of cosmic Etch-a-Sketch.  
  
"What I need is some soap and water," Stephen said briskly, wrinkling his nose at his sticky palm. "Keep an eye on George?"  
  
Did that mean he was taking a rain check on the feeding thing, or tabling it indefinitely? Jon decided not to push it. "Will do."  
  
Stephen was halfway to the kitchen before he paused. "Can I, ah, get you anything? Since I didn't give you any honeydew."  
  
"I'm actually okay for now," admitted Jon. "But thanks."  
  
For a moment Stephen hesitated, muttering something that sounded like "As much as you want, but one at a time. As much as you want, but one at a time."  
  
Then he sprinted back to Jon, bent down, and pulled him into a sweet, sticky, hungry, breathtaking kiss.  
  
When he pulled away, leaving Jon gasping from shock, Tyrone managed a triumphant smirk for a second before bolting for the kitchen.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 28, 2007  
Sunday**  
  
The air was grey and almost frosty when Jon let out the dogs. They frolicked in the cool grass while he pulled his jacket closer and mentally clocked the number of days and hours remaining until the WGA deadline was up.  
  
If worst came to worst, as it looked like it might...he and the other writers had signed on for this, but the production crew was another matter. And they had kids, aging parents, medical bills. Could he get them on the rolls as miscellaneous Busboy employees for the duration? He'd have to email a couple of the lawyers about it. And pester his brother with the details when they had lunch that afternoon.  
  
Jon was still adding up salaries in his head as he checked the headlines, clipped the crossword for later, and spooned a carefully rationed amount of brown sugar onto Nate's oatmeal. After a brief exchange with Tracey, he set off to do a quick sweep of his kids' rooms to make sure they had rounded up all essential toys, while she covered the playroom and the halls and Charlene coaxed Maggie into not dumping her applesauce on the floor.  
  
Halfway across George's room, it occurred to Jon that George wasn't one of "his kids" in this equation.  
  
"Sorry, kiddo," he whispered. The baby was still fast asleep in the crib, thumb planted contentedly in his mouth; his cries had dragged Stephen out of bed around half past three that morning, so the sight was a welcome change. "Didn't mean to bother you. I know your dad would be in here if you needed anything."  
  
The earlier-than-usual takeoff meant they would be gone before Stephen got home from church, so he headed for the master bedroom next. Stephen would be cross if his preparations were disrupted, but even crosser if Jon didn't give him a proper goodbye before he went.  
  
Or so Jon thought, until he opened the door and found the room already empty.  
  
Shrugging it off, he went back to packing, retrieving a stray sock from the bathroom floor and the pills he kept on hand in case of severe insomnia from the cabinet, where Stephen's lithium now sat tucked in the corner like an uncomfortable party guest. Stephen could have gone to church early for pretty much any reason, even just to soak up the community spirit.  
  
It wasn't until Jon went to round up the dogs that he got two shocks in a row. First, that Stephen was sitting on the back steps, nonchalantly throwing tennis balls; and second, that he was wearing a T-shirt under his jacket.  
  
"Didn't realize you were still here," stammered Jon, approaching carefully so as not to kick over the baby monitor. "Are you watching the clock? You're not leaving yourself much time to change."  
  
"Don't need to," said Stephen, dully enough that Jon wasn't sure it _was_ Stephen. All the alters had their own ways of being happy or angry or scared, but this clipped flatness could have come from almost anyone.  
  
"Are you wearing that to Mass?" ventured Jon. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just, uh, unexpected."  
  
"I'm not going!"  
  
"What?"  
  
Monkey, cheerfully oblivious, trotted up to Stephen and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Stephen picked it up with three fingers, gazing into it as if he expected mystic visions to appear in the fuzzy green surface.  
  
With the rote solemnity of ritual, he said, "It has been three weeks since my last confession."  
  


  
Jon wasn't sure how many more surprises he could take. Tracey got along fine with a couple of visits a year, but Stephen.... "Did something happen?"  
  
A barrage of words, the inflection changing on almost every line: "We're fine! We're not fine. They don't want us! Why can't we be good enough? _Fuck_ them, anyway!" With sudden viciousness he hurled the ball like a missile, slamming it into a tree trunk and sending a shower of red and gold leaves tumbling down.  
  
All Jon's reservations about Stephen's particular brand of faith came crashing to the fore. "Of course you're good enough," he hissed through gritted teeth. "If that place had the nerve to reject you, they're the ones who don't deserve—"  
  
"Don't you _dare_ tell me how my faith works!"  
  
Jon bit his tongue. The anger had brought Stephen into sharp relief, pushing back the rest of the chattering crowd and leaving him alone to jab a finger in Jon's direction.  
  
"I've been busy," he continued, trembling but determined. "I've fallen a little behind, that's all. Wasn't even in town last weekend, so of course I didn't go. It's no big deal. Happens to everyone sometimes. I'll get back on the wagon any day now."  
  
He stretched to get his fingers around Shamsky's ball, which the bull terrier had dropped from a cautious distance in case there was going to be more shouting, and slung it in a wobbly but less frenetic arc.  
  
"We, uh, we have to take the dogs," mumbled Jon, jerking his thumb self-consciously at the door. "You gonna be okay?"  
  
"Of course, Jon. Why wouldn't I be?" Stephen stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled across the grass. "Here, boys!"  
  
Both dogs bounded delightedly towards him, dropping their prizes at his feet and circling with wagging tails. "I'll bring them out to the van," said Stephen, before lighting up as he gave each bull terrier in turn a vigorous two-handed head-rub. "Car time! What do you think about that? Oh, it'll be fun. You're good boys. You two are such good boys."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**October 31, 2007  
Wednesday**  
  
Chaos and disarray.  
  
Mostly inside Stephen's head, although he was fairly sure there was something going on around the studio, too. He kept running into groups of whispering staffers who stopped as soon as he was in earshot, and it was too early for them to be planning him a surprise birthday party. It was getting to the point where Sweetness bristled whenever he turned a corner.  
  
_You **like** him,_ smirked Caesar in the background, while Stephen was in the middle of recording a string of radio station promos.  
  
_It was one kiss!_ snapped Tyrone. _What's the big deal?_  
  
_There isn't one!_ put in Stephen quickly. _Now shut up! I need to concentrate on whinnying like a rockin' stallion._  
  
He was fussing over a graphic, explaining that yes, he was sure the artist understood how to work Photoshop, but surely she could fit a _few_ more explosions in there, when the thought crossed his mind: _It really isn't a big deal to you, right? It's not like you think his kisses are special, or anything._  
  
Tyrone's answer wasn't the quick dismissal he had been counting on. _Never said he wasn't pretty,_ he groused. _Just because I don't have a fetish for the short and tubby doesn't mean I can't know a nice mouth when I see one._  
  
"It's method acting for my costume," he snapped, when the third stagehand in a row asked if he was all right. "For Halloween I'm going as a crazy person. You would think a person dressed so convincingly as Professor X would know a thorough costume when he saw one."  
  
Bobby pulled him aside and whispered, "Stephen, that's Toby. He's been in a wheelchair since 1992."  
  
He barricaded himself in the office over lunch, putting Fox News on the flatscreen and cranking the volume as high as he could stand. It didn't cover the girlish singsong in the back of his head: _Tyrone an' Jo-on, sittin' in a tree. Which brings us to tonight's Wørd...._  
  
She nudged Stevie, who dutifully chanted, _K-I-S-S—_  
  
_Does that song have a verse where the other person has their cock down your throat?_ interrupted Tyrone. _Because you might want to skip ahead a bit._  
  
"Not tonight," moaned Stephen, when Tad came to fetch him for rehearsal. "I have a headache."  
  
"Just two more days," pleaded Tad. "Have some water. Have some aspirin. We can turn down the lights; we can tell the audience to golf-clap. Just, please, keep it up for two more days. Do it for your writers."  
  
Who needed writers? Not Stephen. All he needed was his gut. And—  
  
_You can't have him!_ he snapped, scowling at Tyrone in the mirror while Antonia put on his face. _He's mine—you can't want— **he** doesn't want—and I know I can't, but I'm working on it, so—you can't have him!_  
  
_If you think he doesn't want it anyway, why are you freaking out, huh, old man?_ countered Tyrone. _There is **nothing** going on...tree-wise. So take your insecurities and—_  
  
"It's the strangest thing," fretted Antonia. "Your usual shade isn't blending the way it's supposed to. But you couldn't have gotten a tan overnight, or lost five pounds since I last saw you, or...."  
  
"Prescott's courting my sponsorship again," lied Stephen. "Sent me free samples of their miracle spa product. It's supposed to give me the skin of a twenty-year-old."  
  
The glare of the stage lights was calming, though he had to dismiss the usual flock of interns who applauded at rehearsal, citing his constant headache. Against the silence he straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, twisted the ring on his finger.  
  
_Never should have given that to him,_ hissed Sweetness, peering crossly over his shoulder. _It isn't his. You aren't his. He has no right to hold it.  
  
Back off, Sweetness!_ snapped Stephen.  
  
It was the first time he had ever shouted at her. With an unhappy snarl she retreated, lurking at the top of his head, muttering dire predictions under her breath.  
  
"Is everything all right?" asked Sam, as Stephen swung into the back of the limo. "You look pale."  
  
"Maybe you're not stocking a good nutrient-heavy brand of mineral water," countered Stephen. "Maybe we're in the process of wasting away completely, and it's all your fault."  
  
"'We'?"  
  
"It's the _royal_ we," said Stephen, who had been holding that excuse in reserve for weeks and was gratified to finally get a chance to deploy it. "You got a problem with that?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**November 2, 2007  
Friday**  
  
A day away from confession and ignoring the ominous thunderheads massing on the horizon, Stephen dragged Jon into the basement, without any clear idea what he was going to say until it burst out: "Jon, why do you have to be a heretic?"  
  
Jon's hand fell away from his. "Do we have to go there?" he protested, rubbing the back of his neck. "All it's going to do is make you upset."  
  
"Jon, _please!_ " Stephen stamped his foot. The crowd in his head had been quieter today, but he couldn't suppress the rush of childish frustration. "I want to talk about this. I _need_ to talk about this. It's not fair if you won't!"  
  
"What am I supposed to say, Stephen?" asked Jon helplessly. "There are so many things your church considers heretical, I can't even begin to explain them all. The only parts I know in any detail are the ones that Tracey follows, and she's the kind of Catholic who's down with evolution and condoms, which I know isn't you."  
  
"Of course not," snapped Stephen. "My kind of Catholic has a word for that kind of Catholic. 'Protestant'."  
  
"Your kind of Catholic has a couple of words for us, too," countered Jon.  
  
Neither of them had managed to sit down; Stephen braced his sock-clad heels against the carpet, while Jon shifted back and forth on bare feet. "Is that keeping you away? You think they won't accept you? Of course they will! The whole point, of confession, of baptism, of everything, is that anybody can be forgiven if you do the penance!"  
  
"Sometimes there's nothing to do penance for!"  
  
The words soared airily through Stephen's consciousness, barely registering before Stevie caught them, clutching them to his chest like a rosary. _You're forgiven, my child. Go in peace._  
  
"It's not about the specifics, anyway," continued Jon, lower and almost apologetic. "I have tremendous respect for people of faith. People who can find that balance, who feel a profound sense of something greater than themselves, and who don't go starting wars over it—I admire that. I do. But I don't feel it."  
  
"Don't know what you're talking about," scoffed Stephen. " _I've_ never felt anything like that, and it's never stopped me before."  
  
Jon blanched. "You haven't?"  
  
"I don't need to! I know when I'm doing the right thing. It says so in the Bible, and every word in the Bible is true, which it must be because it says _that_ in the Bible too! That's a neat little logical circle, Jon. If we could just go around dropping parts, what's to stop us from getting rid of 'thou shalt not kill'?"  
  
"Rational thought?"  
  
"Why do you have to _think_ so much?"  
  
"Why _don't_ you?"  
  
Lost for words, heart thundering in his ears, Stephen almost missed the knock at the door.  
  
"Not a good time, Charlene!" called Jon, eyes never leaving Stephen's.  
  
"It's an emergency!" came the muffled reply. "Tracey's on the phone, and—"  
  
Jon was on the steps in an instant. "Is she hurt?"  
  
"No. No, she's fine."  
  
"The kids?" He opened the door, Stephen inches behind him.  
  
"It's not them," said Charlene, then caught her cousin's eye. "I'm sorry."


	33. Animals and Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains two dead dogs. There's also [a horse](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/182915/may-01-2007/stephen-s-horse) mixed up in there somewhere. Have all necessary tissues on hand before reading.
> 
> Stephen's conflicting sets of memories about Shasta are presented in [this clip](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/341502/july-29-2010/apology-box) and _I Am America_ 34-35. Mo is randomly borrowed from [Nurse Jackie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nurse_Jackie). Title swiped from [Savage Garden](http://lyrics.wikia.com/Savage_Garden%3AThe_Animal_Song).

**November 2, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
_12 DOWN: This animal would make a purr-fect pet!_  
  
Jon didn't know what Tracey had done to convince the former Lorraine Colbert to let her ex-husband within fifty feet of her, but he was profoundly grateful for it. Even if he wasn't legally entitled to it, Stephen deserved a chance to say goodbye.  
  
Which left Jon on his own in the desolate waiting room, trying to print _CAT_ in a crossword from a year-old magazine. It didn't help that someone had already inked _PETSTOR_ in wobbly letters in 9 across ( _You can find lots of lovable animals here_ ).  
  
He was halfway through replacing it with _SHELTER_ in thick, heavy strokes when the door creaked unhappily and Stephen emerged: eyes red, feet dragging, glasses dangling from one hand.  
  
Jon dropped the magazine and stood, twisting the brim of his Mets cap away from his face. Stephen fell into his arms with a silent sob.  
  
"I thought he might be mad," he whispered, raspy and faint even from right beside Jon's ear. "Because I haven't seen him for almost a year. But he was so happy! Couldn't even see me, but he sniffed my hand and right away his tail started wagging, just like always."  
  
"Gipper's a good dog," murmured Jon.  
  
"He's such a good dog!" choked Stephen, as a tear trickled down Jon's neck.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Even with Jon's lead he barely made it to one of the stiff chairs, tight fabric stretched over hard cushions in a crude parody of comfort. Anger he could ride. Adoration he could lie back and devour. Grief just cut him loose, like a small boat on a wide and choppy sea.  
  
"He's not abandoning me," he insisted, clinging to Jon's shirt over the crammed-together arms of their chairs. "He's sick. He can't help it."  
  
Jon's hand on his arm, stroking. "That's right."  
  
Stephen scrubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "Not like Shasta."  
  
"Shasta," echoed Jon. "That's not...the dog who ran off when you were a kid?"  
  
"That's her," agreed Stephen. "Did everything together—even when Charlene couldn't be there—no bear ever got near us when she was around. Then she stopped walking to school with me, but she was always right there when I got home, so I didn't think...and then one day—"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—Shasta was already ten feet behind when she sat down altogether, one hip twisted to angle froglike beneath her.  
  
"Get up!" snapped Stephen from down the path. His backpack was heavier than usual, dragging on his shoulders with the bulk of his new remedial science textbook (three tests in a row he had turned over his paper and not recognized a word of it, and it was no use pleading with his teachers that he _had_ studied). "Whatever it is, shake it off! I need to get home and study."  
  
The golden lab whined apologetically as she struggled to pull her legs back into alignment, liquid eyes begging Stephen to be patient. On swaying hips she finally hopped forward—  
  
_—in sock feet the little boy crept down the stairs, feeling his way through the darkness, the closet door whisper-soft as he swung it open. Above the box with the dwindling pile of small hats and mittens hung Mama's purse; his hand slipped under the clasp.  
  
Just a couple of bills. Just enough to buy a bit of chicken, or maybe a sausage. Something to let Shasta know he wasn't mad at her for not coming to school anymore, that even Stephen was only mad because it was easier than being scared—_  
  
—"She's happier there," said Papa brusquely. "She'll get lots of fresh air, and she can chase the rabbits."  
  
Impossible, unless she had been faking it with the hips all along, but good boys don't question. Seethe with fury at your traitorous and absent pet, but never ever doubt—  
  
_—but somewhere inside, he knew—_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Stephen? Stephen, it's over. It's 2007, and you're at the vet's office, with—"  
  
"—Jon," choked Stephen, a violent shudder jostling his bones. All that anger, not an ounce of it deserved, and nothing else to wall back the decades of grief deferred, so that he was battered by it, drowning in it. "Jon, I—I can't take this."  
  
"You can," insisted Jon. "Whatever you're seeing, it was a long time ago. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."  
  
"...smaller pieces..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Can't...believe that all at once," whispered Stephen. "Give it to me...in smaller pieces."  
  
"O-okay." Jon's arm around his shoulders; Jon's heartbeat against his knuckles. "Um. That was the past; this is the present. They're different. With me so far?"  
  
Stephen tried. Fought to redraw the line around all the past in his head, from his childhood despair to his teenage haircuts, numbed legs and shameful wanton thrills and dueling shouts that echoed down the hall.  
  
And then one of the figures in his head stepped across the line and walked in the door.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Lorraine rang the bell for the receptionist and studied a poster on the wall while waiting for him to appear. She could feel her ex-husband's gaze on her back, and had no intention of returning it.  
  
The dog, by Tracey's account, had been delighted to see Stephen. That made one of them.  
  
The white-coated functionary appeared behind the counter, exchanged a few forms with her, made some stock noises of sympathy, and disappeared again. All she had to do was make a straight line for the exit. But Stephen's chair was beside it, and Lorraine's traitorous eyes stole a glance in his direction.  
  
To her surprise, they only connected for a split second before Stephen turned and buried his face in the crook of his companion's neck.  
  
"Hey, Lorraine," said Jon, as though this were perfectly normal.  
  
"Hello, Jon," replied Lorraine, who was still fond of the man, in spite of his dubious choice of friends.  
  
Friends?  
  
She took in the details of their position. Jon's protective arm around Stephen's shoulders. Stephen's hand clinging to Jon's dark shirt. The knees pressed together. The heads inclined towards each other. And a dozen other minor details, too subtle to articulate, but when you sink two decades of your life into a marriage, you come out of it knowing a few things purely on instinct.  
  
Mere steps from the door, she said, "You're _not_."  
  
Jon's startled expression fooled nobody. "Not what?"  
  
Double-checking to make sure the receptionist was still gone, Lorraine lowered her voice and hissed, "For God's sake, Jon! Your wife's back there!"  
  
"She knows," said Jon quickly. "We've got it worked out. It's okay."  
  
"What about _his_ wife? Or is he running around on this one too?" Although if she was stupid enough to marry her stalker, she deserved whatever she got.  
  
Without missing a beat Jon's voice went from placating to steely. "Everyone knows who needs to know. You divorced him, Lor, well before any of this started. He hasn't run around on anyone."  
  
"Have," whispered Stephen.  
  
At once Jon's full attention was turned to him. And, in spite of herself, Lorraine's too.  
  
"Jon...wasn't part of it," he added, forehead still resting against Jon's shoulder. "Don't blame Jon. But I...as far as you're concerned, 'I'...there were others."  
  
Lorraine stared. Not because she hadn't had her suspicions for years—they had come up again and again during the proceedings—but she had fully expected Stephen to deny them until his dying day. Why the sudden surge of honesty? And what the hell did "as far as you're concerned" mean? What was he—?  
  
_No._ It didn't matter. He wasn't her concern any more.  
  
She reached for the door handle.  
  
"Wait!" cried Stephen.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
It was like watching a squadron of stunt pilots in action. The slightest miscalculation, and they would crash into each other; all you could do from the ground was watch, and pray that they knew what they were doing.  
  
As Stephen shrugged off Jon's hands, slipped on his glasses, and clambered to his feet, Jon sent up a quick prayer to any gods who might be listening that he knew what he was doing.  
  
"Wait," repeated Stephen. "Please."  
  
"Save it," snapped Lorraine. "I don't want to hear it."  
  
"The kids."  
  
A pause. "What about them?"  
  
"I know it's early," stammered Stephen, "but, please—what do they want for Christmas?"  
  
Lorraine put a hand on her hip. "Why don't you just give them autographed photos of yourself? That's always been good enough before."  
  
"It wasn't," said Stephen. "It was never good enough. I want to do better. Please. I—I can't do it on my own."  
  
There was a heart-stopping pause.  
  
"JP," said Lorraine, "is into toy cars."  
  
Jon nearly cheered.  
  
"Nothing too fancy," she continued. "It can't have small parts, or sharp edges. And it needs to be durable enough to do a lot of crashing into things."  
  
"Toy car for His Holiness," repeated Stephen intently, as though repeating the words for transcription. For all Jon knew, someone inside really was writing it down. "No small parts, no sharp edges, crashable."  
  
"Sally's a big fan of craft kits—you know, the ones with lots of yarn and beads and so on, plus instructions for making bracelets or scarves or potholders. Or you could just fill a box with stuff, and let her sort through it on her own."  
  
"Craft kit for Sally," echoed Stephen. "Or materials."  
  
"Mary's fallen in love with horses. Models, movies, books, toys, anything that has to do with horses will make her happy."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Did you catch that?" asked Lorraine, more out of caution than concern.  
  
"She loves horses," whispered Stephen: distant, breathy.  
  
This seemed to satisfy her, though Jon's own nerves had jacked up the threat level to orange. "Right. And Tyrone would—"  
  
A razor-sharp hiss. "Who's that?"  
  
Lorraine's voice iced over. "Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes, he—"  
  
"NO!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_She loves horses._  
  
The girl had a horse. Had a horse, and lost her when they fled to Little League, and hid the grief away while Stephen sat on the bench and kept proud watch over the bats he was never allowed to swing—  
  
_I can't feel this, not three times in a row, once in a lifetime is too much already—_  
  
—she grabbed him. Sank in her claws and dragged him back, away from the body, away from the pain, and all other feeling with it. Into safety. Into darkness. _This is why you don't love! Why don't you listen? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you._  
  
"And Tyrone would—"  
  
_Who's that?_  
  
"Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most important Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."  
  
"No," said Stephen. A safe shell of Stephen, all but empty, talons closed around his heart.  
  
"Yes, he—"  
  


  
"NO!" _Not him, not my son, not going to let that happen to my son not now not ever_ "I won't let him!" _he's still mine have to keep him safe have to protect him from being hurt hated helpless lonely lost_ "I don't care what he thinks—" _rules rules rules be a good boy and follow the rules_ "—I am still his father—" _listen to your father listen to your Father do what he wants and you'll be safe be good be lovable_ "—and you tell him I put my foot down!" as he took a step forward, _hurt you punish you it's for your own good just don't break the rules don't be shameful don't don't don't and everything will work out fine_ someone touched him _don't hurt my son don't you DARE try to stop me no no no no no no no NO NO NO_ he pulled back and swung—  
  
—and saw blue eyes in the instant before his fist connected.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Lor, wait! Please!"  
  
Lorraine strode through the overcast parking lot without looking back. "I'm not doing this anymore, Jon!"  
  
"If you could just let me know what—what Ty wants—"  
  
She stopped at the side of the little blue Camry, a gust of wind sending dry leaves whirling past her feet, and turned on her pursuer. "He wants his father to leave him alone! Can't you of all people understand that?"  
  
A low blow, but right then she didn't care. Not with Jon already wincing as his fingers gingerly brushed the curve of his cheek.  
  
"Wouldn't let Stephen near him right now even if he wanted it," she continued. "I put up with a _lot_ from that man before I cut him loose, but I never would have let him hit me! I thought you had more self-respect than that!"  
  
"It's not like this is a routine thing...."  
  
"So it's okay if he slaps you around just a _little?_ "  
  
"No! It's not okay, and I'll deal with it, but you have to understand, there's more going on here!"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I—uh, I don't think it's my place to tell you."  
  
"Why am I not surprised?" demanded Lorraine, digging through her purse. "He's a domineering, impulsive, unpredictable control freak. That's never going to change!"  
  
"It's changing already! He's working on it! He just needs help, and care, and patience—"  
  
"You think I wasn't patient? You think I didn't care?"  
  
"That's not what I'm saying!"  
  
"I was in love with him! Why do you think I stuck around for so long?" She pulled out her keys, scratching silver flecks in the paint as she jabbed them unsteadily at her goal. "I loved him, and he thought that gave him the right to walk all over me, and finally I made the smart decision and got away from him." Throwing herself into the driver's seat, she added, "And, Jon, if you have no sense of self-preservation, so be it. What Stephen Colbert does to people is no longer my problem."  
  
She slammed the door, fired up the engine, and burned rubber.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He leaned weakly against the waiting room wall, sweating, panting. It took him a moment to recognize that someone had entered at all, and even then he stared without recognition.  
  
"Stephen?"  
  
A woman in a long white coat ( _they're coming to take me away, ha-ha_ ).  
  
"Stephen, what happened? Where's Jon?"  
  
Was she talking to him?  
  
"You want me to call someone, Tracey?" Another white coat, this one behind glass. "Cops? Hospital? National Enquirer?"  
  
"I know you're joking, Mo, but don't." A hand arced in front of his face; he flinched. "Can you hear me?"  
  
He nodded. Yes, he could hear.  
  
"Can you say something?"  
  
A faint croak, not sounding like him at all: "I...."  
  
"I'll get him, Trace."  
  
Jon?  
  
"Honey, is that...did he...?"  
  
"Yeah. And we'll deal with it. But not here, okay?"  
  
"Right."  
  
His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and wørds seemed to be failing him. "Jon...." he managed, before they gave out altogether.  
  
Jon jerked his head toward the door. "Come on, Stephen."  
  
Like a balloon tugged into the wind on a child's wrist, he followed.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The sky outside was darker than ever, static crackling in the breeze. Cars passed by with their lights on: paired clusters of brilliance painting streaks through the stifling grey. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.  
  
Jon kept his gaze forward, though his ears were keenly tuned to Stephen's footsteps a few paces behind. The whole side of his face was throbbing now; he didn't trust himself to reach out gently enough to pull Stephen from the blankness that had closed around him.  
  
He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone plucked at the waist of his shirt, and spun to find Stevie jerking away, meek as a lamb. "It's okay, hon," he said gruffly. "Let's keep going."  
  
Stevie held off, dawdling on the far side of the painted white line Jon had just stepped across. The glasses had slid down his nose, unveiling dry and reddened eyes. "Jon, please...hit me."  
  
"What?"  
  
" _Hit_ me," pleaded Stevie, squeezing his eyes shut. "Or slap me. Punch me. Kick me. Anything. Just hurt me!"  
  
Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Hitting you won't make anything better. And even if it would, you don't deserve it."  
  
"Jon, please! We—we _punched_ you, and—" He choked. "You can't let that go!"  
  
"You're right," said Jon. "I can't. Now come on."  
  
He turned away and strode on.  
  
The van chirped when he pressed the button to unlock it, distracting Jon for the half-second it took Tyrone to lunge forward and shove him up against the side.  
  
"So don't hit us!" he exclaimed over the crash of Jon's keys on the pavement, hips flush with Jon's but mercifully still. "Find something else to do. Fuck us. Give us one of your sanctimonious lectures. Be _nice_ to us, if that's what gets you off. But don't fucking _ignore_ us!"  
  


  
"I swear to you, Tyrone, I'm not ignoring you," said Jon. "But we're not doing anything until I get back to the house and have a nice long conversation with an ice pack. Preferably without getting rained on in the process. Now, are you going to let me up, or are we going to hold this pose until the storm hits?"  
  
Slowly, in a deliberate and ruthlessly fluid motion, Tyrone took a half step back and sank to his knees, staring Jon down all the while. Jon held steady, refusing to respond one way or the other, but never broke his gaze.  
  
At last Tyrone swiped blindly for the keys, scooped them up on the first try, and without a word pressed them into Jon's hand.


	34. Jon, Full of Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _For some reason, beyond understanding, she seems to love him now more than ever, even though I get the sense that he hurt her something fierce in the early years. I suppose that since most of our hurts come through relationships so will our healing, and I know that grace rarely makes sense for those looking in from the outside._  
>  —William P. Young, _The Shack_
> 
> Clips referenced: [candy and air](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/180973/october-20-2005/lieber---candy-and-air); [will this help](http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=363863&title=john-oliver-will-this-help); [just come up!](http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=363846&title=jon-and-stephen-stephen%E2%80%99s)

**November 2, 2007  
(Continued)**  
  
While Jon fixed himself up with an ice pack, Charlene shepherded an unusually subdued Tyrone into the laundry room and set him to folding rompers.  
  
She ducked outside long enough to bring in the dogs, getting them across the threshold just as the first few drops of rain speckled the porch steps, and returned to find her cousin slouching in the cheap metal chair, staring aimlessly at a pair of tiny socks. "Steve," she said, shaking him out of his reverie. "What happened?"  
  
"Dog died," replied Tyrone with a shrug. "Lorraine was pissed. I think we broke Stephen."  
  
Charlene leaned against the dryer. "Broke him...?"  
  
"Kids are finally getting old enough to say 'fuck you' to his rules," muttered Tyrone, before shifting into Stevie, eyes welling up with tears. "I dunno what to do. I never know what to do. Don't even know when I've broken a rule until somebody says so, but then they punish me and it's okay, only Jon _won't_ , an' I know he's mad, and—!"  
  
He dropped the socks on the card table to bury his face in his hands, glasses bouncing up to his forehead and perching unsteadily on his fingertips.  
  
"Stephen's s'posed to know what to do," he keened. "Even when it doesn't make sense, he's s'posed to be able to shout until everything comes out like he wants it to. If he can't do that, an' Jon hates me, then how...?"  
  
"Honey, don't talk like that," insisted Charlene. "Of course you can't yell reality into the shape you want. You never could. But Jon loves you. All of you have people who love you."  
  
His hands didn't move, but it was Stephen who answered. "Well, I do, at least," he said distantly. "Who needs dogs? Audiences are just as good at mindless love. And they never try to give you dead squirrels."  
  
" _All_ of you do," repeated Charlene. "And, unlike your audience, we're not going to evaporate during the strike."  
  
Stephen tilted his head, one eye peering between his thumb and fingers to squint at her. "Wha?"  
  
A _frisson_ ran down Charlene's spine. "The strike? The one with the writers. You spent all of yesterday at breakfast complaining about how greedy it would be if they didn't back down. Well, they didn't."  
  
"I know _that_ ," said Stephen impatiently. "But what does it have to do with my audience? _I'm_ not a writer. I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Charlene clamped down on the urge to run far, far away. Someone had to tell him. "Stephen, without the writers, your show's going off the air. Jon's too. Everyone in late-night is going into reruns."  
  
There was no reading the expression on Stephen's face, even as his hands fell away, but if looks could drill then Charlene would have had two holes bored straight through her. "How long?"  
  
"We don't know. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. However long it takes for them to get a contract that's fair."  
  
"'Fair'?" Stephen slammed both palms down on the card table, rattling its flimsy legs and sending an avalanche of socks tumbling to the floor, and drew himself up like a skyscraper crumbling in reverse. "It isn't _fair_ for them to sabotage my show!"  
  
"Stephen—"  
  
"Just because some lazy union workers don't want to put in a respectable ten hours a day doesn't mean the rest of us should have to suffer!"  
  
"Ste—"  
  
"I can't go off the air! I can't disappear!" cried Stephen, taking an unsteady and slightly hysterical step towards her, his focus somewhere in the distance. "I'm a public figure, I'm a media sensation, I have two Peabody awards! _People would notice if I disappeared!_ "  
  
"That's the point!" exclaimed Charlene. "People will notice that you're gone, they'll complain to the networks, it'll pressure them to patch it up with the writers, Stephen, _breathe!_ "  
  
As both Colberts tried to catch some air, Stephen's features twisted through expressions too fast and fragmented for Charlene to keep up with: fury, terror, confusion, anguish, and a stalled blankness. As if the memories and emotions he was trying to load were so high-resolution that they needed to pause for buffering.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered, catching his breath after a blank spot. "I'm sorry, I—"  
  
With a grimace of panic, he vaulted himself out into the hall.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Jon would fix this.  
  
As straws went, it was a fine one to grasp, but in the absence of anything hardier Stephen clung to it with all his strength. There was always something Jon could do, even where the full might of the Nation fell short. Some string he could pull, some lawyer he could call—what was the point of having all those Emmies if you couldn't throw their weight around?  
  
The rain pouring against the windows washed out any subtler sounds, but there was a light flickering in the den, and Stephen sprinted for it. Two lights, as it turned out: a ball game low on the television, some blog on Jon's laptop, while Jon with his back to Stephen tracked both, obviously without enough attention left over to notice that George's bouncy seat had stopped bouncing.  
  
"Jon!" exclaimed Stephen, making a beeline for his son, juggling protectiveness and indignation. _Keep busy. Don't stop, and nothing will catch up._ "Say it's not true, Jon! Here you go, baby boy." He knelt by the seat and jiggled its frame, making the dangling plastic stars and planets bounce enticingly. "Isn't that better? That's right. Jon, you can't let the shows go on s—"  
  
He stopped.  
  
Over the padded arch that held up a swaying plastic moon, a gel-blue ice pack was lowered to reveal Jon's face ascendant, newly marred by a shining purple bruise high on the left cheek.  
  
"Slow down, Stephen," urged Jon softly, shifting the ice to his temple. "Are you talking about the strike? Because it's on. Nothing to do now except wait."  
  
"Jon..." _How long? What are we supposed to do until then? What are they going to put on the air while we're gone? How can I be so unimportant that they would just cut me loose?_ "...was that me?"  
  
"What, this?" Gesturing to the bruise, Jon winced. "Yeah. One of you, at least. But it sounded like you."  
  
Stephen gripped the edge of the bouncy seat for support, discovered the inherent flaw in this idea, and sank down to brace himself against the carpet. There was a deathly calm in Jon's voice that he couldn't recognize, much less understand—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I don't suppose you deserved it?" he said weakly.  
  
Jon's eyes fell briefly closed in what might have been agony or exhaustion. "No," he murmured. "Just like you never deserved it. Not from O'Reilly or anyone else."  
  
The feeling in Stephen's hand kicked back to life all at once: knuckles stinging, palm throbbing.  
  
"You seemed pretty out of it at the time," continued Jon. "Do you feel up to talking yet?"  
  
No. Not yet. Not now. Not ever. "Of course. I'm not _weak_ , Jon."  
  
After looking him up and down with that relentlessly calm and level gaze, Jon nodded, beckoning Stephen up to his level. He closed his laptop and fumbled for the remote while Stephen gathered himself and stumbled over to sit on one end of the couch; the television winked off just as he sank into the patterned blue fabric. It felt much too large and empty for one person, but Jon was firmly settled in the armchair, with a regal weariness that Stephen didn't dare challenge.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" Stephen whispered.  
  
"Just listen for a minute," said Jon, voice low. "Do you remember when I told you I wouldn't humor you about important things? That if you really crossed my lines, I would let you know? Well, this is it. Physical violence is more than I can deal with."  
  
Stephen's vision began to go swimmy—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Two Jons sat before him: the wronged beloved, deserving of all his penance and then some; and the faithless traitor, promising to be his salvation only to vanish when Stephen needed him most.  
  
"How dare you?" he hissed at the traitor. "I _trusted_ you! You tempt me and lie to me and string me along, you walk me right up to the edge and I _let_ you—over and over!—because you swore you'd hold my hand! Where do you get the balls to push me over and then abandon me while I'm falling? Please don't abandon me," he added, choking, driven to desperation by the pain in his beloved's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Let me make it up to you—please—I'll do anything, whatever you want, whatever it takes, please, just don't leave!"  
  
"I can't parent you, Stephen!" burst out Jon. "I can't shelter you from everything, and I can't be the one in charge of punishing you, and I definitely can't hold you back when one of you is throwing a tantrum. I'll support you wherever I can—you know that. But you need to work out some basic internal ability to take care of yourselves."  
  
Stephen's heart soared. Self-control. He had been good at that once. Hadn't he?  
  
"Which is why you need to start talking to a therapist."  
  
Stephen stopped breathing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
After a few frozen heartbeats Stephen collapsed onto the floor—fallen or fainted, Jon thought wildly—but no, he had thrown himself prostrate with the fervency of a worshiper at an altar. "Please," he sobbed, grasping at Jon's ankles, "please, no. Not that. Please, don't make us, we _can't_ —!"  
  
"All of you, stop!" Pushing away Stephen's begging hands, Jon knelt to meet him/them, trying to get a grip on anything that would hold him steady. All of this was blocked from George's view by the chair, but there was no telling how much the baby could overhear before being set off. "I'm not gonna demand anything you can't handle, okay? You don't need to come up with some kind of miraculous turnaround. Just start making the effort. That's all I ask."  
  
"Ask something else!" cried Stephen, clutching at his shirt. "Anything else. _Anything._ We'll be whoever you want us to be, we'll take any punishment and never complain, we won't ask you for anything ever again, but please, please, not that!"  
  


  
"Listen to yourselves!" exclaimed Jon, forcing the other man's drawn and teary face upward. "How can you promise something like that? After everything you've been through—if I'm so important that you'll risk it all again—what could possibly happen in therapy that's worse?"  
  
Now Stephen was gasping too hard to answer, quaking with breathless sobs, pupils dilated so far that his irises were thin brown rings.  
  
"'Could'?" he echoed at last, dry as a cracked desert riverbed.  
  
"...'did'?" guessed Jon.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Fresh tears welled behind Stephen's lenses.  
  
"You've gone before," realized Jon: blurred and washed-out, all low tones and muddy greys.  
  
Had he? _Someone_ had gone. Didn't mean it was him. "Last year..."  
  
"Oh," breathed Jon. "You went with _Lorraine_."  
  
"Said she would divorce me if I didn't go," choked Stephen. "So we—but she did—and the counselor testified—sided with her on everything—"  
  
"Oh, Stephen—"  
  
"—which is how she got the kids!" Stephen's voice was a hair's breadth away from a shriek. "I thought I would be okay with George instead, but they're still missing, it still hurts—I can't go through that again! Don't even have the right to see them—like she thinks I'll hurt them—sure, I could be a little strict, but I would _never_ —Jon, you _know_ I would never—!"  
  
Chest tight, gasping for air, he searched Jon's eyes for confirmation, reassurance, soothing.  
  
Jon's silence was deafening. The bruise spoke for itself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A wail of pure despair soared forth and crescendoed through the room.  
  
For a moment, Stephen was convinced it was his—  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The fingers digging into Jon's shirt twisted, Stephen's face curling into a snarl. "Why didn't you tell me he was here?" he demanded, over the baby's anguished sobbing.  
  
Shock wiped everything else from Jon's features. "Stephen. You played with him when you came in. Don't you remember?"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Without so much as the space of a breath to sift them, Jon's thoughts crowded together, tumbling and overlapping and collapsing in on each other.  
  
Stephen's were unreadable. Ashen, his face registered fractured glimpses of emotion before running up against a fractured blankness. As if his emotions were a record that kept clicking to a stop, screeching backwards, and slamming through the same few chords over and over.  
  
"I can't do this," he whispered.  
  
Scrambling out of Jon's grip, he bolted: past the chairs, past George, with pounding footsteps into the hall.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stephen flew past Charlene without looking at her. A burst of rain echoed down the hall, drowned only by the crying baby before it cut off with a slam.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye she caught the motion of Jon nearly vaulting himself through the door, catching himself just in time. She met his panicked look with her own ( _How much did you hear?—Enough_ ), waved down the hall as he gestured back into the den, and blurted "Will you get him?" at the same time as Jon stammered "Can you take him?"  
  
Jon swallowed. Charlene nodded. One or both of them stepped forward and pulled the other into a fierce hug: mutual anchors in the midst of the storm.  
  
"I'm so glad you're here," gasped Jon.  
  
"It's okay," breathed Charlene, not realizing how true it was until she heard it. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
He was halfway down the front path, rain cold on his face and feet splashing through puddles, before he fell too short of breath to run any longer.  
  
_I can't do this._  
  
Nothing felt solid anymore, least of all himself. He had been blown apart and remolded half a dozen times in the past half hour, was teetering on fragile foundations and papered-together fissures; the downpour soaked through him.  
  
_God doesn't want me. Nation doesn't need me. Lorraine can't stand me. Kids won't see me. Pets die on me. Charlene might leave me. I spent all this time trying to protect Jon, and now...!_  
  
Among the shattered fragments of himself he scrambled for something, anything, to lean on—  
  
"You have to protect the baby," hissed Sweetness. "No matter what."  
  
What if he couldn't? What if he was too sick to raise a baby right? What if George would be better off without a father like him?  
  
"Then leave!"  
  
Sweetness' voice had shaded into another: like Stephen's, as if heard from somewhere far away.  
  
"You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough! They'd all be better off without you! Give up—go away—disappear—"  
  
"STEPHEN COLBERT, DON'T YOU DO IT, BOY!"  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The light from the doorway poured out over the front porch, glittering off of the raindrops, streaming down the path.  
  
Jon could just make out Stephen's feet at the edge of his shadow.  
  
"Don't do it!" he repeated, shouting into the downpour. "Not after you've kicked and screamed and clawed and fought to make it this far! You had to rip your soul into pieces to get through everything that's happened to you, but you did! You survived! So don't you dare leave us now!"  
  
"What do you care?" demanded whoever was out front. "You don't love him! You'll throw him away if he doesn't change!"  
  
"Love doesn't mean you never get to set limits!" countered Jon. "This isn't about punishing him for having the wrong kind of feelings, or forcing him to become something he's not. Can't you see that it's better for everyone if he can cope without hitting people? Better for him. Better for all of you. Better for George!"  
  
The other man turned back toward him in a slow, stumbling circle. "Don't talk about the baby. He hasn't hurt the baby!"  
  
"But one day the baby is going to grow up!"  
  
A flash of white: Sweetness had bared Stephen's teeth.  
  
"Kids trigger him! Isn't that right?" When Sweetness didn't deny it, Jon forged on. "Especially boys. Being around my son makes him anxious at the best of times. His oldest wasn't even in the building, and still triggered him hard enough to sock me over it! George is little enough that you can convince yourself he's perfect, but what do you think is going to happen when he gets old enough to make messes? Or draw all over the walls? Or say the word 'no'?"  
  
There was a long and rainy pause before the answer finally came. "You think I'll hurt him. Then how can you want me around?"  
  
"Stephen," breathed Jon, weak-kneed with relief. "Stephen, if I thought it was inevitable, I wouldn't want you going to therapy. When George needed you to know how to warm a bottle, or change a diaper, you learned. Now he's gonna need you to have coping skills. You can learn those too."  
  
"What if I can't?"  
  
"You can! It'll take more time and effort, but I know you can do it. I don't buy for a second that you're unfixable!"  
  
A laugh, edged with hysteria. "What if there's no me to fix?"  
  
Jon squinted into the gloom, as if that might help him understand.  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The earth should have moved. Lightning should have flashed; mountains should have crumbled; the sky should have torn apart at its seams. A revelation like this deserved to be heralded.  
  
"I'm not real, Jon!" cried Stephen, and only the sudden lightness of a pretense abandoned told him it was true.  
  


  
"I'm a shell," he continued, weights falling from his heart with every word. "A chocolatey coating of truthiness around a hollow center. Candy and air! I'm not the original Stephen—I never was—can barely even be _myself_ five minutes in a row anymore! How can I expect George to count on me when there's no me here to count on? How can you love me now that you know—"  
  
"I already knew!"  
  
The world blurred as it spun on its axis, hurtling alone through the void.  
  
"I know you're not the original," continued Jon. "Figured it out a while ago. About five minutes before I realized that it doesn't matter which of you came first, or how you got here, or why. You're different. That's all it is! It doesn't make you worth any less. It doesn't mean you can't be a good father!"  
  
"How can you be sure?"  
  
"I have faith!"  
  
Stephen quaked with a sob of confusion and cold.  
  
"You can do this," repeated Jon, a dim silhouette haloed in gold. "I have faith in you, Stephen. You can do this. Say it with me now."  
  
"I can—" Stephen choked, teeth chattering. "Will this help? Will it be true if I say it enough?"  
  
"It's already true. We're just saying it to help you believe it. You can do this."  
  
"I—I can do this."  
  
"I believe in you."  
  
"You believe in...m-me. In me."  
  
"You're real."  
  
"I'm...." Sniffles; more shivering. "I'm real."  
  
"You're real, Stephen, and I love you!"  
  
"I—I'm—!"  
  
"I can't hear you!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"—I'm real!" I shouted, the earth wet and squelchy but solid against my feet. "I'm real, and I'm your Stephen, and I love you!"  
  
"Then, Stephen," exclaimed my Jon, holding open his arms, "come _here!_ "  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—and we were stumbling across the grass, reaching the foot of the porch stairs before we couldn't manage another step.  
  
"Come up here," repeated Jon, looming large in my vision as he held out a hand.  
  
"I can't!" I cried. "I'm too afraid!"  
  
"Just come up! It's easy! Stephen, my Stephen, what are you afraid of?"  
  
"Jon," I said helplessly, looking down at the sorry state we had let ourselves fall into, "I'll get you wet!"  
  
With a burst of laughter like a sunrise, Jon shook his head and stepped out into the rain.


	35. Epilogue: I Am America (And So Can We)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part which catches up with, then overtakes, the epilogue of [Expecting](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/77651.html). Stephen's litany is from _Dune_ , and his book is the excellent [_Meditations on Middle-earth_](http://www.amazon.com/Meditations-Middle-Earth-Writing-Pratchett/dp/B000C4SNYE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1205726026&sr=8-1); Tyrone is working from a book with the unsubtle title of [Pornogami](http://www.amazon.com/Pornogami-Guide-Ancient-Paper-Folding-Adults/dp/1931160287/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1290797477&sr=8-4). The girl's way of addressing Tracey has been retconned to "Miz Tracey", on the advice of Senior Southern Correspondent [**politicette**](http://politicette.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> It would be remiss of me not to once more thank Senior Beta Correspondent [**stellar_dust**](http://stellar-dust.dreamwidth.org/), without whom none of this would have been possible. ♥
> 
> Clips referenced: [the fear puppet](http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=363863&title=john-oliver-will-this-help); [Hannah Montana](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/252638/october-13-2009/jermaine-maine-tweets-miley-cyrus-facts); [the burning couch](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/180133/august-27-2008/stephanie-tubbs-jones-tribute); [throwing drumsticks](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/181227/november-28-2005/cyber-monday); [tonight!](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/127752/january-07-2008/intro---1-7-08)

_Stephen Colbert of_ The Colbert Report _is sitting behind his desk, gripping the edge so hard he's losing the feeling in his fingers. There's nothing else left to hold him up; he's little more than a shell on the inside, a puppet with his wires missing.  
  
I'm standing across from him.  
  
"I can't let go," he insists, half-clinging to, half-hiding behind the rigid lucite. "If I don't stand strong, what's to stop everything from falling apart?"  
  
He's been my strength for years, the pillar by which the rest of me is held up, and I tell him so. "And I still need you to protect me. But the things I need protection from are different now. You can change to meet them—I know you can. All you have to do is let go."  
  
One finger at a time, Stephen begins to pry his hands open._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When asked to pick neutral ground for a meeting, Lorraine chose a playground. If anything went wrong, she would be within shouting distance of the most protective force in the world: concerned parents.  
  
She wasn't surprised that Stephen had come in a suit. She was a little thrown to find him sitting on the swings, scuffing his polished shoes in the scooped-out hollow of mulch under his feet.  
  
"Were you serious? About everything in that letter?" asked Lorraine, settling into the swing beside him.  
  
Stephen's stony mask twisted with grief. "You think I would make up something like—? What do you need, one of the goddamn tapes?"  
  
"That's not what I meant!" She hadn't forgotten how Stephen would exaggerate, if not outright lie, to cast himself as the victimized underdog; but a story about doing gay porn for cash would make more trouble for his image than it could possibly get him out of. "I was talking about the therapy."  
  
"Ah." Stephen looped his hands around the chains of the swing for support. "Yes, I'm going. That's how I managed to send you my letter folded inside a letter from the therapist, in an official therapy-office-addressed envelope. If she weren't _our_ therapist, why would she have agreed to participate in a letter turducken?"  
  
"'Our'?"  
  
"'My'," corrected Stephen. "Jon came in once, that's all. So, sometimes 'our'. But mostly 'my'."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"I'm not in any condition to parent them right now," blurted Stephen, turning his head away. "I know that. I don't think I could even _talk_ to—to T-T-Ty—look at me, Lor, I can't even get the name out." He barked out a weak laugh. "But I'm going to get better. I'm starting to get better already. Do you know, since starting on these meds, I haven't...." He held open one hand, palm up, and with the other mimed bringing down a hammer. "Not once."  
  
Swings at rest are not easy to fall out of, but once she recognized the gesture, Lorraine almost managed it. This was more than the last thing she had ever expected Stephen to admit to—this wasn't even on the _list_.  
  
"Ty could use a new watch," she stammered.  
  
Her ex-husband's head snapped up, eyes wide. "A watch?" he repeated. "I can do that. I can do that! You wa—uh, you'll see. I'll get him the best model the Swiss have ever cranked out. It'll be gold-plated, and accurate to the picosecond, and water-resistant up to three hundred feet, and—"  
  
"Dammit, Stephen, stop showing off!"  
  
"I—I wasn't—!" The man deflated, eyes wide. "I just want him to have the best."  
  
"What he needs is _normal_ ," said Lorraine. "If you care about the boy at all, then swallow your pride and get him an ordinary, functional, non-flag-patterned watch."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_On the count of three, we both brace ourselves and heave.  
  
The shelf is a behemoth, but in tandem we're just enough to conquer it, hoisting it up and over until it crosses a tipping point and falls back against the wall with a mighty crash. The little boy is curled up in a ball underneath it, arms thrown over his head to shield him from the final rain of tumbling books.  
  
Stephen clears the debris away in record time, shoveling it aside like so much garbage. I know some of those books are important, valuable even, but I can get to them later. They're not what matters most.  
  
"Thank you for holding all this for me," I tell him, massaging the feeling back into his legs. "I'm sorry you had to get hurt along the way. You should have been protected. You deserve to be protected. From now on, we're going to start doing that."  
  
Tears well up in Stevie's eyes; Stephen hums a lullaby while I gather him into an embrace._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
"Shake it off, Col-bert...."  
  
"You said that on Wednesday, too," remembered Janet. "Can you tell me what you're trying to shake off?"  
  
"Fear, Dr. Scott," declared Stephen, modulating his voice for a microphone that wasn't there. "A little healthy anxiety keeps the blood flowing, but not like this! This is the kind of panic and helplessness and dis—what's the word— _dysphoria_ , thank you—it shuts me down completely, doc. I can drive in circles around the church all day, but if I try to turn into the parking lot...can't you just convince the fear that sometimes it needs to shut up for a while?"  
  
Whether he was talking about a fully developed alter, a simple emotional defense gone into overdrive, or something in between, Janet's strategy was the same. "Maybe you could try thinking about your fear in a different way. Instead of trying to push it away, accept its presence. It could be that it has something to tell you."  
  
"But what if there's nothing to be afraid of? How can it have anything useful to say? I must not fear, doc. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration."  
  
"And is the next line 'I will kick my fear to the curb'?" countered Janet, before picking up the litany. "'I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.'"  
  
Stephen's mouth fell open. "Oh my God, you're a Bene Gesserit."  
  
"I subscribe to the newsletter," said Janet with a wry smile. "As for what your fear has to say—you won't know for sure unless you ask it."  
  
Her patient worried one of the office's endless packets of tissues in his hands, head tilted to the side. "See, she wants to talk to me," he mumbled, in a new and smaller voice. "Can I—oh!" He looked up with a start. "Hullo."  
  
Janet considered this, then leaned forward and proffered her hand. "Hello to you too. I don't believe we've been introduced."  
  
"I know who you are." The new arrival allowed her a hesitant shake. "I'm...I...my name is Steve. Steve Col-bert. Is it okay if you call me Steve? Everyone calls me Stevie, but I'm gonna be too old for that soon. I'm seven and a half now, you know. Practically eight."  
  
"You can pick whatever name you like," said Janet with gentle authority. "It's lovely to meet you, Steve."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_While my arms are full of Stevie, Stephen knocks on Tyrone's door. It falls open at the first touch, revealing a dark room: or rather, a darkroom, half-developed memories floating in baths and suspended on long arcs of clothesline under the sultry ruby light.  
  
"Are you sure I'm the one you want?" asks Tyrone, winding his way cautiously through the gloom to meet us. "Caesar's on the bed in back, sleeping. I can wake him up if you want."  
  
Stephen turns to me for his cue; I shake my head. "It's time I showed you some appreciation. You've both gotten me through so much—I have you to thank for some of my best friends, and him for my first four wonderful children. If Caesar wants to sleep, he can sleep. And if you want to come out...."  
  
The sentence hangs unfinished for a few seconds before I cough meaningfully at Stephen. He fidgets, clears his throat uncomfortably, then extends a stiffly formal hand.  
  
Tyrone clasps it, and steps across the threshold._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When Stephen and Tad took their final bows, half the bar burst into applause. Even the writers, who had been treated to other and better displays of tumbling in the past, were surprisingly enthusiastic for a group that had just finished a long day of picketing. It probably helped that Stephen was paying for their drinks.  
  
Bobby, also out of work and without even the promise of a future pay rise to carry him through it, clapped politely and wished he had thought to pass around a hat.  
  
Tad made his way over to the booth with careful steadiness before collapsing into his seat and resting his forehead on the table. "My back is going to be stiff all week," he groaned. "Why do I insist on putting it through these things?"  
  
"Because it's fun?" suggested Stephen, settling down across from them in a strikingly fluid motion. He was as limber tonight as Bobby had ever seen him, sauntering and flexing his way through the air with a practiced effortlessness. To the woman already on the bench he added, "Join me for the next one, Charlie?"  
  
"Go easy, cousin," admonished Charlene, who was performing some probably-unspeakable gourmet alchemy with her cocktail and the complimentary bowl of mixed nuts. "You're not as young as you think you are."  
  
"Don't remind me," muttered Stephen, though he made no move to get back up.  
  
Bobby had settled into a comfortable rhythm of massaging Tad's shoulders when Charlene added, "By the way, you two...there's something we want to say." She nudged Stephen. "You want to take this one, or...?"  
  
"Hm? No, I can do it." Stephen began rifling through her purse as Bobby tugged his partner into a sitting position. "Here's the deal: Tad, if you were to bring a sexual harassment lawsuit against me, and win, how much do you think that would be worth?"  
  
Tad shot Bobby a panicked look; Bobby shrugged in equal bewilderment. "Stephen, I don't know why you're raising this issue, but I assure you, I have no intention of—"  
  
"Bored now," interrupted Stephen. "Lucky for me, you don't have to guess, because we looked it up." He passed a plain white envelope across the table. "It's this much. If you're curious."  
  
Tad took the offering, slid out the piece of paper it contained, and gaped. Bobby, catching sight of the number, felt his head spin.  
  
"Well," he babbled at last, "I guess we won't be canceling the honeymoon after all."  
  
Stephen's brow furrowed. "Who are you marrying?"  
  
"Each other, remember?" Bobby slung his arm over Tad's shoulders, leaning against him just in time to keep both of them from falling over, and refused to get too worried about the look of amazement on Stephen's face. "They let us do that now. Try to keep up."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_There are places I can't reach.  
  
The room next to Tyrone's is shut tight, though the sugar-candy beats of Hannah Montana are bopping along inside for all to hear. There's a nameplate hanging on the outside, block letters printed against a gold star: JERMAINE MAINE.  
  
I tap on the door for the first few visits, then slip a note under it and wait for her to make the next move. She'll come to meet us when she's ready._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
When Stephen first asked Tracey to help him scope out stables, he seemed to be planning to buy his eldest daughter her very own horse. By the time they actually got around to the search, he had thankfully scaled the goal down to riding lessons. Tracey agreed to come along on one condition: that Stephen try not to be too recognizable.  
  
As it turned out, that was the least of her worries. No sooner had they gotten within smelling distance of the first one than Stephen winced and crushed his fingertips against his temples. "I think someone wants to come out," he stammered. "Keep an eye on them?"  
  
"Will do," stammered Tracey, and waited, trying not to be too apprehensive, while Stephen's system sorted itself out. When the new arrival cheerfully addressed her as Miz Tracey, she knew it would be all right.  
  
Between the high California-peach voice, a lighthearted set of mannerisms, and expressions that completely transformed Stephen's face, this alter would have been hard to recognize even in a suit and tie. In a T-shirt and a (roomy) new pair of jeans, she introduced herself as Jermaine, and their tour guide didn't so much as bat an eye.  
  
"Your husband is a natural at this," remarked the guide, as Jermaine stroked the nose of a large and curious Appaloosa. "Did he grow up with horses?"  
  
"Oh, he's not my husband!" said Tracey quickly. "He's family."  
  
"I see." Absently turning over her riding crop, the trainer glanced at Tracey's ringless hands. "In that case, are you doing anything Saturday night?"  
  
Tracey burst into a laugh so loud that every animal in earshot twitched, with the exception of the one under Jermaine's gentle hands. "I'm sorry, it's not you, it's just—I'm kind of spoken for."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_The girl's door is the last before the light from the set begins to drop off. We know it isn't empty: there are distant footsteps sometimes, and muffled voices, and one week a scent that smelled for all the world like a burning couch. But anyone hidden beyond that darkness may not be ready to be found, and my therapist says we don't want to scare them by hunting.  
  
One of them emerges from the darkness on his own, scaring the daylights out of **us** in the process. Partly because he's a ghost—pale, half-translucent, almost all in silver-grey—but mostly because he's the spitting image of Jon.  
  
It doesn't take long to figure out that the Ghost is voiceless. Luckily, his gentle smile needs no wørds. And if any of us had doubted it, the lone flash of gold on his left hand marks him as ours.  
  
"Can you be the one to wait here?" I ask. "To greet Jermaine, or anyone else, when they're ready to meet the rest of us?"  
  
Imaginary Jon kisses each of us—me on the temple, Stevie on the forehead, Tyrone on the hand, and Stephen, tenderly, on the lips—and steps back to take up the post._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
The cabin was packed to the brim with people: Steve and Nancy in the main bedroom, Charlene and Tracey in the second; Nate and three-year-old Johnny Carell in the smaller of the kids' rooms, with George tucked snugly in one of the drawers; and six-and-a-half-year-old Annie bunked on the couch next to Maggie's crib. In the one remaining room, Jon let Stephen take the twin bed, and was about to crawl into the sleeping bag next to it when Stephen switched on the bedside lamp and slid down off the mattress.  
  
"I feel good," he said in an awed undertone, hands folded demurely in his lap, while Jon hoisted himself up on his elbows to listen. "The food was amazing, and no drumsticks got thrown at anybody, and I didn't drink too much, and everyone here knows us—and they like us, Jon, they really like us!"  
  
"We do, Stephen," echoed Jon, warmed by a pleasant languor that had nothing to do with the obligatory post-feast heaviness. "We really do."  
  
With a shy smile Stephen plucked at the edge of the faded William & Mary sweatshirt that Tracey had finally forced Jon to retire into sleepwear. "I like it when you say my name."  
  
"Stephen," crooned Jon, obligingly sitting up as Stephen hummed in contentment. "Stephen. My wonderful handsome Stephen. Can I...?"  
  
"Please," whispered Stephen. A shiver ran through him as Jon nuzzled his neck, but he only tightened his grip. "My Jon. T-touch me?"  
  
"Any time." Jon ran a hand up Stephen's flannel-clad thigh; Stephen arched against him with a gasp, and they sank to the floor together, every move careful and slow.  
  
Not slow enough: "Hey, uh, Jon?" said a low voice, breath hot against the shell of his ear. "I'm here. Stephen's okay, but I'm here too. Just so you know."  
  
"Hi, Tyrone," murmured Jon, arms still around the other man. "You get that you don't have to be, right? If Stephen's not ready for this, that's okay. I'll survive."  
  
"I know."  
  
Jon waited for him to continue, but that seemed to be the end of it. "Listen...please don't think I don't want you around, all right? I would love to schedule some decent time with you later on. It's just, I promised I would spend tonight alone with Stephen."  
  
"Can he stay?"  
  
That was Stephen again; and it was Stephen who pulled back far enough to meet Jon's gaze, caressed his jaw, searched his eyes for acceptance.  
  
"I don't want to black out tonight, Jon," he confessed. "Even if we don't get very far, I don't want to risk missing any of it. And what Tyrone's not saying is...he wants the same things I do. All of them. If that's okay. If you have enough extra love in there that you could spare him some."  
  
Jon's feelings were about as well-organized as dandelion fluff on the wind. His hopes were intense but fragile; his anxieties still loomed large; his instincts were still on the fritz entirely...  
  
...and then an interested party who had long been silent decided to cast a tentative vote.  
  
"I'm up for it if you are," said Jon lightly, rocking his hips against Stephen's and feeling the sparks begin to fly. "But no matter how this turns out, I love you. Both of you. With all my heart."  
  


  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_The lights on the set remain dazzling as ever, leaving the shadows that much darker in the corners they don't reach. Stephen coos gently up at the rafters, where one last figure crouches in the gloom and hisses her suspicion and defiance.  
  
Stevie whimpers and hides his face against my collar, and even Tyrone inches back a few steps. Only Stephen is unselfconscious to a fault, clucking and soothing until she spreads her wings and in a rush of feathers swoops down—  
  
—to perch on his wrist, dwindled to a small black bird, about the size of a handgun. Or a fledgling raven.  
  
"Shhh," whispers Stephen, pressing a kiss to her head and smoothing her deep glossy feathers. "Easy, Sweetness. It's okay now. Shhh."  
  
She cocks her head to fix Stevie and me with one beady eye as we approach.  
  
"You were the first person to love me," I whisper. "Unconditionally, and with everything you had. I thank you for that. And I love you too."_  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
Stevie gazed in openmouthed wonder as he unwrapped his present from Jon; the stuffed dog was never far from him for the rest of the day. Stephen eyed Tracey's gift with some suspicion, until he cracked the cover and realized that the book held a collection of essays extolling the virtues of Tolkien. Tyrone spent the entirety of _Frosty The Snowman_ converting squares of color-splashed paper into a fleet of cranes, a garden's worth of flowers, and a couple of things that made Jon both snicker like a twelve-year-old and move to keep them out of the kids' line of sight.  
  
The Ambiguously Gay Duo were in the middle of saving Santa Claus when they were interrupted by the opening bars of "Let The Eagle Soar."  
  
Before anyone could hit pause, Stephen had already torn across the room in a flurry of wrapping paper and grabbed his phone. "Hello? Hi! Merry Christmas!"  
  
Flashing a delighted grin at Jon, he headed for the hall, voice floating back to the party by the tree. "Soon, honey. Soon. Daddy has to work some things out first. But don't you worry about it. I'm working very hard, because I love you all very much, and I can't wait to see you again. For now, how are you doing? Did you get any good presents? Tell me everything."  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
_In a ragged but united group we advance towards the door. The one that wasn't there yesterday.  
  
Stephen and I are both out of hands, so Tyrone steps forward and places one of his on the shining golden handle. He pauses only when Stevie speaks up: "We can come back if we need to, right?"  
  
My gut tells me to turn to Stephen, who nods. "If we need to. That's what it's here for."  
  
"But we can move beyond it now," adds Tyrone impatiently. "Any time we're ready. Are we ready yet?"  
  
Gripping my shirt more firmly, Stevie says, "Uh-huh." Sweetness hops from talon to talon in agitation, but if she wants to hiss in protest, she holds it back.  
  
Stephen squares his shoulders, tilting his jaw to show off what he thinks of as his heroic side. "I was **born** ready."  
  
"You heard the man," I agree. "Let's do this."  
  
Tyrone puts on his best smile, twists the handle, and pushes._  
  
  


◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊

  
  
**January 7, 2008  
The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life.**  
  
"Tonight!"  
  
I have no writers. I have nothing in the prompter to lean on. I'm on my own.  
  
Relatively speaking.  
  
"Then!"  
  
But no matter what I say tonight, there will still be people who like me. The real me.  
  
"Plus!"  
  
Sometimes, I'm even one of them.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
I grin at the camera, at the world.  
  
"This...is the Col-bert ReporT!"  
  



End file.
